Tales From Cyrodiil: Birth Signs
by SickleYield
Summary: Ashleigh Prideaux has come a long way from High Rock seeking a cure for his illness. That quest will lead him into unexpected places. He certainly didn't expect the battle-weary Altmer or the Argonian who thinks he's a Khajiiti female. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Brief Introduction:

This story is seventh in the _Tales From Cyrodiil_ series that's been going on intermittently since June 2006 (with a hiatus as I took a vacation in the Fallout fandom). The only way this should particularly affect the narrative is in that the Hero of Kvatch was a cranky tailless Khajiit whose adventures are discussed in _TFC: Luckless; _she performed the Main Quest and one or two other small quests, and other quests that the player character normally encounters may or may not have been performed by random other people_. _

My rule is that I follow canon where it exists, unless it directly contradicts gameplay; and where canon and gameplay are internally contradictory or leave gaps, I get to make things up. My main source for canon reference is the UESPWiki and the online transcription of in-game books (in addition to several years' gameplay in MW and Oblivion). I've been playing Morrowind more lately, so this story will contain some elements of Morrowind lore and gameplay as well (and quite a few spoilers, in case that matters to anyone). Again, where rules are contradictory between games, I will be choosing my own interpretation. Those who have read my other fanfic will know that, while there may be long pauses occasionally, I never start a story I don't finish.

I love my readers. I've corresponded with several of you off and on for years now, and your criticism has almost always been constructive and courteous. I try to respond personally when someone writes an unusually articulate or helpful review, so that they know I'm paying attention to their feedback and it's appreciated. Every so often, however, I get PM'd by someone whose interpretation of the gray areas differs from mine and who thinks I should change something. Don't bother. I love positive feedback, but in the end I write fanfic (as opposed to something I might be able to sell for money) because I want to build my own sub-version of somebody else's fantasy universe. If you want things to be different, the best solution is always to write your own fic. Try it! It's fun!

Chapter 1

A long, thin man on a long, thin horse rode wearily across a grassy meadow. Little bumpy hills rose up around him, carpeted with grass and spotted with blue and red and purple blossoms of flax. Here and there white lady's mantle peeped through, or big, glorious peonies as pink as a courtesan's rouge. The leaves of the scattered trees on the hillsides were just starting to turn, but there had been no frost as yet. The flowers were still blooming.

He sat the chestnut gelding's saddle as one long accustomed. His skin was very pale even for a fair-haired human, marking him as a denizen of tower and library rather than field and forest. There were dark smudges under his eyes. Occasionally he coughed. It was not a loud sound. It was the tired, undramatic cough of one who has forgotten that he does it. His brown robe was worn, but the cut was expensive, and it was split over his trousers to allow for easier riding. The bulging saddlebags and the small satchel that hung from the saddle horn had also no doubt been fine, when they were new. Now the studs were tarnished and the leather discolored. He had ridden a long way, and planned to ride a long way more before the day was out.

The bandits, however, had other ideas.

He was first made aware of their existence when an arrow flew out of the brush and buried itself in his right shoulder. He hissed, but managed to keep his seat. The shaft was small and the impact negligible, except for the startling pain of having a steel head embedded in his flesh. The gelding obediently stopped as he tugged at the reins, though its ears flicked at the unaccustomed scent of blood.

"This one suggests you dismount at once," said an incongruously cheerful baritone from the bushes ahead. "This one will shoot you through the eyeball next time, yes."

The man got slowly down from his horse. He carried no weapon, and his magicka was exhausted, had in fact been exhausted since some time the previous day. He suspected he knew what would happen if he reached for the potion bottles in his satchel.

A broad-shouldered Argonian in a surprisingly clean black silk blouse and trousers padded forward out of the brush. The man watched him with dull surprise. He'd been expecting a Khajiit, for some reason. This particular lizard-man was an uninteresting shade of tawny beige. His two small horns curved up from the sides of his skull, not entirely unlike pointed ears. A Bosmer in a stained blue robe and a big Nord in fur armor followed him. The Nord's hair was tied back in a greasy braid, and pale stubble marked his dirty cheeks and chin.

"Gods, finally," said the Bosmer. He was a weaselly specimen, sallow and long-faced, and his pointed ears stuck far out from the sides of his head. "We ought to get a good price for that horse."

"A fine bit of flesh he is," agreed the Nord. "Move aside there, Master Mage. Let's see what's in your saddle bags."

The Nord found himself fixed with a cold and angry blue eye. Then the man explained, in a drawling Breton accent, what he thought of this and what the Nord, the Bosmer, and the Argonian could do with themselves. The Argonian listened to this with interest. The Nord scowled. And the Bosmer raised both hands and let go a lightning spell of not inconsiderable force.

The man fell back on the greensward with a scream, twitching and writhing. The bandits watched this with varying degrees of amusement. Then the Nord went to get the saddlebags. The gelding, though it shied momentarily at the scream, was evidently used to spellfire. It let itself be easily caught and did not appear at all sorry to be rid of the weight of water skin, bags and satchel.

"Books," said the Bosmer, rummaging through one saddlebag. "Huh. I've already read this one... This one might be useful... Hey, there's a copy of _Vampires of Vvardenfell Part II. _That's worth something."

"Keep your filthy hands off it, you whoreson thief," groaned the man. The Bosmer tossed a ball of frost in his direction without looking.

"Bunch of potion bottles," said the Nord, looking into the satchel. "Mara Mother Mild, he brought more of these than he did water. See what's in 'em, Juggles." He handed a small vial off to the Argonian. All three ignored the pitiful groans of their victim, who was now suffering from frost burns as well as the occasional spasm, none of which helped the arrow wound in his shoulder.

The Argonian uncapped the vial with one clawed finger, then waved his hand delicately toward his nose past the opening. "Hm. Flax seed... bog beacon... and, if this one mistakes not, steel blue entoloma. These are powerful restoratives, though I doubt not that he brewed them himself. Valuable, but careful we must be where we sell them, yes."

"Well, that's a couple pretty ribbons for you, anyhow," said the Nord. He smirked.

"Ah, how very typical the male Nord attitude, that women can be so easily bought with trinkets," said the Argonian.

"Gods help us all if they couldn't," said the Nord.

The mage was sufficiently distracted from his discomforts by this that he raised himself up on one elbow. After a moment's apparent disorientation, he wiped his bloody nose (he seemed unaware of the blood leaking from each ear). He coughed again. Then he said,

"Actually, if one of you were to be mistaken for a female, I rather think it would be the little cannibal."

"Gods, what a fool," said the Nord, as the stranger writhed in the grip of yet another lightning spell. "You'd think he _wanted _to go the hard way. _I _would've just cut his throat."

"This one suspects it is Garander who is the fool," said the Argonian, still hefting the potion satchel. "And I think perhaps you are one also, Dugan. An I am not mistaken, live this prey will."

"You're awfully squeamish, for a Khajiiti bandit," said Dugan.

"It was fun for a little while," said the Argonian. "But this one is beginning to find it dull. Goodbye, Dugan."

"What?" said the Nord, or tried to. The word came out as a sort of gurgle owing to the new and large gash in his throat. The Argonian stepped nimbly back to avoid the spray of blood and the falling body, then knelt to wipe the blade of his dagger on his former colleague's cuirass.

"What in every daedric Hell did you do that for?" demanded the Bosmer.

He didn't get a chance to hear the answer. The strange mage took advantage of his momentary distraction to lurch up onto one elbow, extend the other hand, and fire off a fireball large enough to incinerate a small house. The Argonian somersaulted back out of the way. The Bosmer did not. When the smoke cleared, a blot of greasy ash and a large circle of bare earth were left among the grasses where he had stood.

"Ha," said the Argonian. "Here. This one has no use for these." He walked calmly over to the mage, dropped the potion satchel next to him, and went to rifle Dugan's body.

"Ought I to thank you?" inquired the mage dryly. He lost no time in downing one of the little vials, however. He waited until he felt his magicka fully returned before he performed the healing spell. A spiral of blue magicka puffed up around his body, and the blood on his face dried up and blew away like dust. The arrow pushed itself out of his shoulder and fell to the ground. He got slowly to his feet, tightly clutching the satchel. No healing spell could make him look less of a scarecrow. Gods knew, he had tried.

"This one sees no reason why you should," said the Argonian. He attached a small purse to his belt. "But she does not want your books and things, either. She invariably finds such tomes incredibly dull, and as for alchemical equipment, bah."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the mage warily.

"Although the miniaturized calcinator _is _adorable," said the Argonian, carefully putting the item back into a saddlebag. "A very powerful mage you must be. But then, a Breton born under the sign of the Atronach would be a fool to go into business as anything else."

"I gathered that you guessed that," said the mage. "Absorbing your loathsome little friend's spells was the only way I could restore my magicka. To what do I owe this sudden reversal?"

"Garander was no friend to this one," said the Argonian. He went to load the saddlebags and satchel back onto the gelding, which tolerated this patiently. "And anyway, this one expects to collect handsomely for bringing back Dugan's head. Garander's would have been worth a nice bit of coin as well, but it appears you have vaporized him. Ah, well. Would you like a drink of water?"

"Yes, thank you," said the mage. "I am Ashleigh Prideaux. Whom do I address?"

"You may address whomever you like, Milord Prideaux," said the Argonian, offering the water skin. "But this one is Ah'drazzanaja, also known as Juggles-One-Dozen to those who have difficulty pronouncing long Khajiiti names. Juggles will do."

"Er," said the mage. "Thank you." He accepted the water skin gingerly. He very much wanted to ask a question, but he was having trouble forgetting the speed with which the Argonian had cut the throat of someone with whom he had been cheerfully conversing a moment before. A lifetime of strict training in etiquette came to his rescue. "That's rather an uncommon Khajiiti name, isn't it? Your mother's, by any chance?"

"Alas, no, for I did not know her," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "This one was raised among strangers in the Black Marsh. Until she was seventeen years old, she labored under a curse placed upon her by evil men. You will find it hard to believe, but she actually believed herself to be an Argonian boy at that time."

"That sounds very confusing," said Prideaux with complete honesty. He took a sip of water. "May I ask what opened your eyes, Madam?"

"This one was sent, for reasons she may not tell you, into an Outer Realm. There she met a daedric prince who opened her eyes to the truth, and returned to Nirn a changed woman, never more to serve those evil ones who sent her there."

"This daedric prince would not be Lord Sheogorath, by any chance?" inquired Prideaux.

"Indeed it was," said Juggles-One-Dozen. He shook his head ruefully. "And, alas, this one is indeed a little mad now, for sometimes she fancies that others still believe her to be an Argonian. It is very confusing."

"I see," said Prideaux. A horrible thought had occurred to him, but he stifled it immediately. He did not know this person, who absolutely _was _mad, although not perhaps in the way he believed himself to be, and who seemed to be a dangerous person in other ways as well.

"Now, if you will excuse this one, this one must locate Dugan's axe and be about her business," Juggles went on. "It is a long way to Leyawiin and this one will have to ride Garander's horse, which is an ill-tempered and smelly beast and will try to throw her off if it can."

"You're not going to steal my horse?" said Ashleigh Prideaux. He coughed absently. "I mean, I do appreciate it, but..."

"Dear sir, this one is perhaps no lady, but she is _not _a thief," said the Argonian firmly. He removed a small war axe from the dead Nord's belt, laid it on a clean patch of grass, and began to roll up the sleeves of the silk blouse. Prideaux was not entirely surprised to observe that he had varnished his nails black. "This was was forced, by regrettable necessity, to masquerade as a bandit until such time as this one actually caught Dugan and Garander in the act of attempting to murder an ordinary citizen. That was not in this one's instructions, exactly, but she would not have innocent blood on her hands. A certain interested party in Leyawiin was tired of losing caravan shipments out this way."

"Oh," said Prideaux, wondering if this interested party in Leyawiin actually existed. "Well, then, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Good day to you, Ma'am."

"And to you, kind Sir," said the Argonian. Wiry muscle rippled beneath the sleeves of his silk shirt as he knelt over the dead Nord, raising the axe.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Ashleigh Prideaux spent that night under the branches of a white-flowered tree, hardly more than a bush. He fell asleep listening to the chestnut gelding, which he been told was named Pert, cropping the grass around the stake to which he had tied it. The morning sun between the branches woke him.

Originally, he had planned to push straight on to Bravil, and then Leyawiin. The exhaustion of the unaccustomed long ride and of the illness that never quite left him put paid to that notion. Besides, he had no wish to encounter Juggles-Two-Dozen again on the way. Prideaux spent the first minutes of his day coughing, a usual result when he slept where there were no pillows with which to prop himself up. Once he was able to stagger upright, he washed and groomed himself as best he could at a little cataract that sprang from a rock nearby. Then he saddled up Pert again – it blew in his ear in a way he thought _entirely _too cheerful for the early morning – and was off. One of the blue vials, which he told from the others solely by aura, served him for breakfast. He did not plan to be caught without magicka again.

Unlike the previous day, he took a canvas bag from his kit and stopped occasionally to pix bits of flax blossom. His crude map showed a lake somewhere along his route, and with any luck, there would be water hyacinths there. He had planned to ration the vials and make the trip quickly, but yesterday's events said that was not a good strategy. That meant he would need to gather ingredients for his potions wherever he could find them. Even if nothing else happened before he reached Bravil, there was no guessing what sort of highwaymen might be expected between Bravil and Leyawiin, or on the trip back up toward the Imperial City. He suspected, given his lack of success in Anvil and Skingrad, that if he were to find what he sought at all it would be at the Arcane University. Still, he would be a fool not to check at the other guilds while he had the opportunity. At least, that had been his reasoning when he left Skingrad, he thought glumly.

Somewhat to Ashleigh's surprise, he found the lake and the hyacinths without trouble. The subsequent magicka discharge from his alchemy set attracted an imp, but a soul trap and a couple of significant lightning spells took care of that problem and filled one of his soul gems besides. It was with considerable cheer as well as newly recharged magicka that he set out once more on the way to Bravil.

It was with considerably less cheer that he observed raindrops begin to fall just as the distant city hove into view, mud-colored and reached by a rickety wooden bridge across its deep, craggy moat.

What he found in that damp and miserable city on this occasion will form no part of this narrative, and would in any case be quite dull. He slept at the Guild, inquired of its head regarding the question that most preoccupied his mind these days, and, finding no answer, turned South the next day toward Leyawiin. The rain poured down for the entirety of that ride along the border with Elswyr, perhaps the only reason he did not encounter further footpads on the journey.

It was with more than a little gloom that he finally rode into the muddy yard of the livery stable outside the city gate, handed over Pert, and trudged into Leyawiin hauling his own bags and satchel. His hair was wet, his robe was wet, and the damnably ever-present cough was making itself felt by way of a dull ache in his chest.

"I beg your pardon," he said to the first guard he saw. "Which way to the Mages' Guild?" The man wore a mostly-white tunic with the city's livery over a chainmail cuirass and greaves.

"That way," the man pointed. "It's a couple of blocks. You can tell it by the big stained glass window." He eyed Ashleigh's thin, stooping form, his sodden robes, and the obviously heavy bags. "You need some help with those?"

"I do thank you, but I am quite able to carry them," said Prideaux politely. He freed one hand, shook it to restore sensation, and cast a feather spell. The weight of the bags lifted at once. He had enough magicka left to deal with any unexpected footpads between here and the Guild, he hoped. Beggars, mostly Khajiit and Argonian, eyed him from under wooden awnings, but no one seemed inclined to venture out into the rain. Leyawiin's buildings were mostly stone, but someone had evidently thought it a good idea to pour a sort of mud plaster over the stone in between the wooden frames. Most of the tall, narrow edifices were painted a dull yellow or orange. The roofs were peaked, the better to shed water. Prideaux glimpsed lavender, fly amanita, and even some metallic blue-gray specimens of steel blue entoloma growing about his feet as he walked down the stone sidewalk. Perhaps tomorrow he would have time to examine some of the city's flora. Leyawiin was certainly no drier than Bravil. The reverse, if anything. He glimpsed pools of clear water behind many of the houses, rings spreading and combining and recombining across the shining surfaces as the rain fell.

_But then, the city is not so far from the border with Black Marsh as well as Elswyr. It is not surprising that Argonians are comfortable here._

He finally glimpsed the distant sheen of the stained glass window through the gathering dusk. Some thoughtful soul had lit a torch beside the Guild's front door, making the reflective surface visible a long way off. Prideaux stumbled up the front steps, fumbled the door open, and was finally in out of the rain. His robe dripped on the stone flags of the floor. Like every other Cyrodilic Mages' Guild, there was a recessed decoration in the middle of the floor, the traditional blue and yellow star with an eye in the center. It was looking a bit muddy. He supposed that was no surprise.

"Hello?" said a strong alto. A buxom Nord in a plain blue robe came down the stairs on the other side of the great entry room. "Gods, but you're soaked. Let me help you with those bags. Are you a member?"

"Yes," said Prideaux. "I'm Ashleigh Prideaux. How do you do?" He could feel the bags getting heavier as the feather spell wore off, but he chivalrously offered the woman the lighter satchel anyway. She wore her blond hair tied up in a loose bun. Her face was plain, quite ordinary, but in another light and a different set of clothes she might pass for pretty.

"Quite well, thanks," said the woman. Her diction was abrupt, Nord-fashion, but her manner was sympathetic. She took the satchel with a small smile. "I'm Agata. Mistress Dagail is the head of the guild here, but I help out as much as I can. Are you staying the night? That's a nasty cough."

"Don't mind it, it's not contagious," said Prideaux, stifling another paroxysm. "And yes, if it's not too much of an imposition. I've come to ask your guild head a question, but that can wait until tomorrow, I hope."

"Yes, of course," said Agata. "I'm afraid the basement is the best we can do at the moment. There's no fire, but it's clean and dry, and you can help yourself to the larder. I'll show you."

"Thank you," said Prideaux gratefully. He followed her down a short hallway off to the left, through what seemed to be a small dining room, and through a set of steel doors to a dark stair. Agata murmured a light spell as they went, and a green glow sprang up around them. The Guild's basement was surprisingly large. It stretched out into darkness and distance beyond the single bed that she showed him. Shelves lined the walls, covered with produce, pottery, empty bottles, and the other clutter of ordinary life in a Guild that supported several people regularly and transient others as they came and went. Heavy columns held up the ceiling at regular intervals.

"Here you are," said Agata. She laid the satchel carefully on a small table near the bed. "Do you have any other clothes? I'm sure S'drassa could lend you something. He's our only male resident, since we lost Kalthar." She produced a box of matches and a candle.

"While I appreciate the offer, I do have another robe," Prideaux told her. "I've had something of a long ride. I'll have a quick bite and go to bed, I think. What time tomorrow do you suppose I should speak with Mistress Dagail?"

"Oh, probably any time after nine," Agata said. She blew out a match, looking with satisfaction at the warm glow of the candlestick. "We usually have breakfast at eight." She glanced at Ashleigh with evident pity. "I can save something for you if you'd like to sleep in."

"Thank you, dear lady, but I wouldn't dream of letting you go to the trouble," Ashleigh said, and smiled wanly down at the Nord. "I seldom care to eat in the morning, if the truth were known. I will attempt to wait upon Dagail at around ten 'o clock, if she is available at that time."

"I'm sure she will be," said Agata. "Well, I'll take myself off and let you get changed out of your wet things. If you need anything, S'drassa is the first door to the right of the main entrance, and he'll be up late. I usually sleep upstairs."

"I'm sure I shall do fine," Prideaux said smoothly. "Thank you again, Mistress Agata. I really am quite grateful for your hospitality."

"Sleep well," said Agata, and smiled at him again before she bustled off up the stairs. Ashleigh, though endowed with no telepathic abilities, was quite sure he knew what she was thinking: _Poor bastard. _A little courtesy from an obviously sick man generally went a long way with lady mages, he found.

Ashleigh divested himself quickly of his wet robes and undergarments and put on the other set. They were identical to the first, except that they were drier. He had known when he left High Rock that he would be traveling hard and far, and it would not do to look too wealthy.

_Small danger of that. _Ashleigh went without much interest to examine the larder. He had never been much of an eater, and over the last couple of years he'd lost most of his sense of taste. A small loaf of bread and some leeks and radishes served him for a rough supper. After he had eaten, he disentangled the black ribbon that normally held back his blond hair and combed it out. Like the rest of Ashleigh, it was long and thin.

Once he'd slept in a feather bed, he thought as he climbed between the cold sheets. There had been servants with warming pans in winter time, and a large fireplace burning merrily when he woke up in the morning. True, that building had been much draftier than this one. But it had been home.

That was long ended. The old place had been sold to pay his elder brother's debts, and that had been _before _the damnable sickness that no Chapel priest or Guild healer could cure. He could probably support himself as a mage-for-hire in High Rock, if not for the fact that he would be working for people who knew what his family had once been. He could think of several other things he would rather try first. Prostitution, for one. Muck-farming in Vvardenfell, for another. Ashleigh snorted genteelly at that thought, plumped up the pillow as much as he could, and huddled up under the worn blankets. There were plenty of them. He really couldn't fault the Guild's hospitality, thank the Divines; and that was more than he could say for the surviving members of his family.

The next day, he sought out the Guild head at the time he had suggested. Mistress Dagail, he was informed, was reading in the upstairs library. Ashleigh thanked his guildmate politely, stiffened his upper lip, and hauled himself up the necessary flights of stairs – and why in the name of Zenithar _was _the godsdamned guild so tall? He had to pause on the landing and cough for a couple of minutes before he could compose himself sufficiently to haul open the library door.

It would be difficult to perfectly describe exactly what one powerful mage feels in the presence of another. Mages are to some extent able to sense the ambient magicka in the atmosphere around them. One who is particularly puissant both generates and absorbs this power, and that tends to leave an indent on the ley lines, like a rock on a picnicker's blanket. Some lines of power incline "downhill" toward them even as others radiates outward, and other mages will feel the gentle tug.

So it was that Ashleigh was aware, before he even had the door all the way open, that he was in the presence of a very puissant mage indeed. He was not completely surprised to see the elderly Bosmeri lady who looked up from a yellowed book on top of a desk. Very powerful mages often are very aged, and that is much more possible for a mer than a human (as Ashleigh himself was constantly reminded). Mistress Dagail wore a long gown of dark maroon velvet in an excellent cut, and an incongruously plain copper medallion that he immediately recognized as a practical rather than a decorative item. Like Agata, she wore her hair bound up behind her head.

"Come in, child," she said kindly. "Though I fear I do not have what you seek."

"Good morning, Mistress Dagail," said Ashleigh. "Then you know why I've come?"

"You are ill," said Dagail. She set aside the book carefully and pushed back her chair a little so that she could stand. "You would like to be cured. Is it not thus, Master Prideaux?"

"Indeed it is," Ashleigh said with some resignation. He folded his hands behind his back. "I've been given many different names for the thing, most of them readily refutable in that it is incurable by ordinary means. It is not consumption, chronic bronchitis, astral pneumonia, withering lung, or anything else that I have been able to discover. But it will not leave me, and it has not killed me."

"One of those outcomes must take place within the twelvemonth," said Dagail. "This I have seen, and in such matters I usually am correct. Further than this, I cannot tell you. The images are not clear. There are one or two other things I might share with you, but they are obscure to me and might help you or harm you. I will let you choose."

"Please tell me," Ashleigh said.

_Always better to know than not know. _ It was a truth to which he clung stubbornly, or why else had he undertaken the journey?

"That I will, and you shall have the script of them as well," Dagail said. "First: You will save one who can destroy you. I cannot interpret this, and do take care how you read it yourself, for the risk is great."

"I understand, Mistress," said Ashleigh. "Is there more?"

Dagail nodded. "Second: Not every unsound mind is evil. Not every sound mind is good."

Ashleigh stared at the Bosmer. "Unsound mind..." he said quietly.

"This has meaning for you?" Dagail asked. She seemed genuinely curious, as if she really had no idea what she had said.

"Possibly," said Ashleigh. "Someone of distinctly unsound mind did me a good turn not two days ago, but we parted company."

"Hm. It is quite possible that you will meet again."

"Wonderful," said Ashleigh under his breath.

"Third... You must pardon me. My memory is not what it was." Dagail opened a desk drawer and withdrew a roll of parchment. She unrolled it carefully and looked at what was written on it. "Ah. Third: take the black one."

"Black," Ashleigh said carefully. "Er. Is that all?"

"I'm afraid so," said Dagail apologetically. "Even with my father's amulet, I cannot choose what comes to me or does not. It only makes the voices clearer."

"Well, in any case, I have taken enough of your time," Ashleigh said. He steepled his fingers and bowed, a traditional mages' salute. "Thank you for your counsel, Mistress." Dagail returned the gesture with a regal nod.

"All are welcome to what I can give them," she said. "Good journey, Master Prideaux."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Rather than retrace his steps up the road past Bravil, Ashleigh Prideaux chose to ride on the Lower Niben. It cost him a couple of his good potions, but he had several extras now. The gelding Pert did not seem at all leery of setting foot on the water's surface. But then, the hostler of the stable from which Prideaux had bought him had earnestly claimed he was used to magery.

It was a fine day on the water. Over the surface itself, there were few of the insects that haunted the banks. Prideaux had always enjoyed waterwalking. There was something indescribably fascinating about the way the horse's hooves hit the water with a slight ripple, as if it were a floor made of jelly. He could look down past the stirrup and watch the weeds wave in the current. The occasional toothy and very puzzled slaughterfish rolled a cold, fishy eye upward as they passed. Whenever the horse started to sink gently downward, he would cast the spell again, and watch as Pert's hooves rose back up above the surface.

Sometimes there were creatures on the bank. He saw an occasional deer, big-eyed and nervous at his passing, or the quick flash of a vanishing cottontail among the dark leaves. Mudcrabs went on about their business on the pebbly shore without paying him much heed. Once he even saw a wisp, an argent golden cloud as big as a man's head hovering a yard above the ground. It gave out a soft, euphonious chime, which he knew better than to fall for; but it was a pretty thing, and as long as he kept his distance, he could appreciate it without fear.

He passed vessels great and small with somewhat more frequency. There were fishermen, gaping at the stranger with the waterwalking horse, and once he passed a great galleon, half-grounded and in the process of being dragged off a sandbar by a team of horses. He crossed to the other side of the river to avoid it.

Prideaux kept to the edges of Niben Bay when he came there, aware of the shipping traffic. He was not the only mage to be using this method of transportation, apparently. He saw a couple of other robed figures walking on the water, though they kept their heads down and their hoods up. No one responded to his greetings.

He saw the Arcane University on its high, rocky isle from far off. It took much longer to figure out how to get there. At last a fisherman informed him that, while he might certainly try to make the climb if he wished, the best way was to take the bridge from the Imperial City's Arboretum. Oh, and his horse would have to stay at the Chestnut Handy Stables. There were no horses allowed in the City, and good riddance, too, for they would muck up the cobbles something awful. Where were the stables? Why, outside the Talos Plaza district, off to the West. Prideaux thanked the man wearily and started off in exactly the opposite direction from the one he wished to go. Pert snuffled as they moved from water to land, though in approval or disapproval Prideaux could not say.

There were many Legionnaires about. They were easily identifiable in their dull, serviceable plate, peering suspiciously from behind the nasals of their helmets. Prideaux supposed now was not the easiest of times to be an Imperial. Five years and more after the closing of the Gates, the Empire seemed stable, but he had heard it often expressed that this was just the calm before another storm. The Septim line had perished, and the Dragonfires would never be lit again. To one from a little stub of geography made up of contentious city-states, the loss of one line of rulers seemed an odd thing to cause such national anxiety. But then, High Rock had long had the saying:

_Find a hill, become a king._

That long history of quarreling and commingling, human blood and elven mixed and shed, was very different from the Imperial one. The line of mortal Emperors had traced their ancestry from the Trials of St. Alessia and the burning blood from the heart of the dragon-god Akatosh. The now-impossible rite of the Lighting of the Dragonfires contained within it the statement that without an heir of the joined blood, Cyrodiil would fall under the Demon Lords of Misrule. There was no knowing who this meant, exactly, but the invasion of Mehrunes Dagon so lately thwarted suggested who at least one of those Demon Lords must be.

Prideaux was still dwelling on this sobering theme when he came to the stables at the foot of the hill that led to the great gates. The portals towered some two or three times his height, proportionate to the size of the stone wall that encircled the Imperial City. He left Pert with the cheerful Orc who ran the stables, cast his feather spell again, and shouldered his bags and satchel. Then he went up the steep hill to the open gateway. A guard eyed him from the shadow of the great doors, hand on his sword hilt.

"I beg your pardon," said Ashleigh Prideaux, when he had finished coughing. "How do I get to the Arcane University from here?"

"Go straight ahead to the statue of Talos, then turn right," said the guard. "You'll have to pass through the Temple District, and the Arboretum beyond that. There's a gate and a bridge to the University from there. It's the only entrance."

"Oh, my," said Prideaux faintly. That sounded like a very long walk on foot. "Is there anywhere I might lodge between here and there?"

"Tiber Septim Hotel," said the guard. "Straight up the street, Citizen." He had already resumed scanning the other travelers who passed through the gate. Prideaux shrugged and went. The statue of the dragon was impossible to miss, with its neat circle of stone blocks and the red and gold flowers at its base. He had heard that the City had been almost entirely destroyed by attacking daedra. One could hardly tell this at a glance. For the most part, the stone buildings still stood. Even most of the paving stones were regular again, and the thin strips of earth between sidewalk and buildings showed no burn marks. Here in the shadow of buildings and walls, mushrooms were more common than flowers. The blooms around the statue must be someone's special charge, Prideaux supposed.

He paused beside the statue to look around. He could see the door to which the guard had alluded. It seemed a long way off, down a street that curved slightly. Apparently it was true that the districts of the Imperial City were arranged in slices around the Palace and White Gold Tower. He could see the tower itself in the distance, unbelievably high above the more mundane structures below, and unmistakably Ayleid with its domed base and the clawed battlements around the flat roof.

More importantly, it was quite clear that he could not possibly walk to the University today. He turned to look glumly up at the wooden sign of the Tiber Septim Hotel. The paint was fresh, including a small amount of gold leaf; the very script of the letters seemed to whisper, _expensive_. Ashleigh grimaced. His gold supply was meager. He stopped a passing Imperial who had a pleasant face.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," said Ashleigh. "Are there any other lodgings near here?"

"Not really," said the man. He scratched his bald head. "There's the Bloated Float down by the Waterfront – it's cheap - and in the Elven Gardens District there's Luther Broad's and one other place."

"I see. Which way is the Waterfront?"

"South and East," said the man, and moved on.

Ashleigh sighed, then coughed. It seemed he was in for a walk no matter what, and he already felt the beginnings of a fever. That happened from time to time. Riding and walking all day would not help it. Well, if he couldn't save his feet, he might as well save his purse. He cast his feather spell once more and turned toward the South to look for another gate. At least it didn't look like rain.

The Waterfront was represented by yet another curving street, this one walled on only one side and fronted on the other by Niben Bay. The Bloated Float was identifiable by a wooden sign set out on the sidewalk and a permanent set of stairs built onto the side of it, the better to allow customers access. Ashleigh, now flushed and definitely feverish, trudged down these and through what seemed to him an unusually heavy wooden door.

The tavern deck was snug, with a high ceiling to balance the small floor space and a bar on one wall. No one sat at the tables. The bar was occupied only by a slumped person in a brown cloak that hid body and features, though the shoulders evidently were bony and narrow. The right one seemed distinctly higher than the left, though he could not tell if this was because of posture or deformity. She was speaking to no one in particular in a high, strident voice. He couldn't quite place the accent.

"- burned Ald'ruhn. Ald'ruhn! Why not Suran? 'Tis a pesthole full of false Incarnates and slave hunters and naked dancing s'wits, none of them male, by the way, which strikes me as more than slightly unfair. Why not Hla Oad? Well, all right, Hla Oad is too wet to burn. But did it really have to be Ald'ruhn? I hear Percius Mercius died going back for that Nord smith. Ha! I believe that little rat Aengoth survived, by all the arms of Sotha Sil who perished - "

A dark-haired Altmer met Ashleigh at the base of the stairs. He was dressed in the embroidered linen garments of the better class of tavern-keeper, had a distinguished middle-aged countenance, and was presently looking somewhat harassed.

"How do you do, good Sir? Let me help you with those." Ashleigh allowed him to remove the saddlebags. He immediately set them down on the nearby bar, looking surprised at the weight.

"Very well, thank you," Ashleigh said. "Do you have a room for rent?"

"Certainly, and I'll let you have it all night for free if you'll solve one little problem for me," said the Altmer. "You're a mage, aren't you? I can tell."

Ashleigh silently damned the native High Elven ability to sense magicka. "What exactly is it that you want done?"

"It's that madmer over there." The bartender waved a hand at the figure at the bar, who was still talking at length to nobody. The long harangue did not seem justified by the nearly full bottle of cyrodilic brandy and the half-empty glass in front of her. "She's scared off all my other patrons. I've lost the price of the room many times over in custom since she got here. If you can get her out of here or shut her up, I'll be _more _than grateful."

"Has she been here all day?" Ashleigh asked hopefully. Perhaps this was her fourth or fifth bottle of brandy, and he would hardly have to do more than nudge her off the stool. She must have spilled some. There was a stain on the wood floor around the base of the bar stool, and he thought he glimpsed a trickle of dark fluid down one of its wooden legs.

"Yes, but that's all she's bought," said the bartender indignantly. "She came tramping in here, said she was dying, and asked for brandy, and she's hardly drunk a drop of the stuff. Just goes right on talking the worst horrors – well, _listen._"

Ashleigh listened.

"- Even have hands, their arms just hang without bones, and they come at you with that face full of tentacles waving and poison coming off them like smoke. And if you let 'em touch you, they'll suck the life right out of your body. And the ash vampires! Half of them have a tentacle where their eyes ought to be and the others have a gaping hope there instead. And when you get near them they look _right at you._"

"I see what you mean," he said. He handed the man a few of his meager supply of septims. "Bring me a glass of mead and I'll see what I can do. If you could possibly mull it I'd be ever so grateful." His throat was beginning to hurt on top of everything else.

"Yes, of course, I've got irons in the fire for just such an occasion," said the Altmer graciously. "Thank you _so _much."

"Don't mention it," murmured Ashleigh, and dragged the saddlebags down to the stool beside the Altmer. "I beg your pardon, Madam. Is this seat taken?"

"Nay, stranger," said the mer, barely glancing at him from under her hood. "You look like you could use it." He caught an instant's glimpse of a gaunt and hollow Altmeri face, typically sallow. The iris of the eye that he saw was so dark that it looked black. Then she turned back to take a tiny sip of her brandy with a hand inside an awkward gauntlet. It was an obvious antique of Dwemer make. The thing looked ready to fall apart, but a thin sheen of magicka covered the surface.

"The corprus stalkers were the worst," she said, as if he had asked a question. She was leaning hard on the bar, as if she really were drunk. "The poor bastards didn't know what was happening to them, or where they were, or much of anything except that they were hurting and mad. Kill you in a second if they could, aye, but with all those horrible growths all over they couldn't hardly walk, let alone run after you."

"But wasn't that cured when Dagoth Ur perished?" Ashleigh interjected, his fervid brain conjuring a vague memory of what he'd heard of events in Vvardenfell. The bartender slid a glass of hot mead across the bar. Ashleigh took a grateful sip before adding, "That's the corprus you mean, is it not?"

"Oh, aye. It's all over with." Another quick glimpse of that bottomless black eye, narrowed to a slit as if she could not quite focus on his face. "All of it. No more temple. No more _three blessings, Sera, _no more _City of Light, City of Magic_, no more Almsivi intervention. Still plenty of cliff racers, worse luck. Sotha Sil murdered, and Almalexia put down for everyone's good but hers, and gods know what became of Lord Vivec. Ha! Gods!" She turned to Ashleigh so fiercely that her hood fell back, disclosing a tight braid of pale hair and a truly astonishing set of puckered scars that crisscrossed her face in a neat pattern, like embroidery. He was startled to see that she had no right eye. The socket was shriveled up, the lid stretched across the empty hole. She still leaned hard on her right arm as she gestured with the brandy glass, sloshing expensive liquor.

"Gods," she repeated. "Let me tell you something, Sir Breton, there's nought that has ever worn flesh that is better than faithless. Better to put your trust in daedra, little as they can be trusted, than in anything born of woman or mer. Even Vivec failed us, Vivec! Who looked up from the womb and saw the end of all things, and laughed. Perhaps he has gone to his Annunciation at last. Perhaps Mephala has him."

Prideaux opened his mouth to respond to this as the woman paused to sip her brandy with a trembling hand. Then he realized that her cape had slid back over her left shoulder, partly because it was lower than the right one. She wore a plain leather tunic over her hose. There was quite a large tear in it, almost from armpit to waist, and her side looked as if it had been gnawed by a demon. Ashleigh's horrified and fascinated eyes traced the trickle of blood down from the gory wound to the barstool, thence to the floor. And he'd thought it was spilled liquor...

"Madam, you are wounded," he said.

"Nay, sir, I am killed," she said calmly. "They saw to that, same as I saw to a good number of themin the Old Manor District. They're a bit better at their work on this continent, I grant them that."

"You could be healed," Ashleigh said.

"'Tis no good. There's poison in it," said the mer.

"It must be a very slow one, then," said Ashleigh. "Since you've been here for quite some time now."

"I am not so very easy to poison," said the Altmer. "Though it hurts me something fierce, I acknowledge. I had thought to have been and gone some time before this. There is nothing for me here."

"I see," said Ashleigh Prideaux, as if this suicidal admission were entirely natural as a subject for conversation. "If you would pardon me for just one moment."

"But of course, Sir Breton," said the Altmer politely, and turned back to the bar. She set down her brandy glass and looked thoughtfully at her hands as Ashleigh reached down for his potion satchel.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: What the heck DO they call an Adam's Apple in a fantasy universe with no Biblical canon, anyway?_

Chapter 4

Ashleigh Prideaux coughed again as he hauled the satchel up onto the bar. The mead made him feel a little better, but it did little for his fever and nothing at all for his exhausted magicka. He extracted one of the small vials, uncapped it, and drank the contents. The brew fizzed on the way down in a way that no alcohol had ever done for him. The power tingled all the way to the ends of his fingers, bottled lightning in his bones. He tucked the vial away for later use. Then he turned back to the Altmer, reaching for her wounded side.

A thin hand shot out and seized his wrist. He let go the magicka anyway. A puff of restorative blue struck the wound. It dissipated slowly as the mer stared at Ashleigh. The ragged edges of the injury crept rapidly closed as the blood dried up and blew away. A new scar on the yellow flesh remained.

"What have you done, Sir?" she demanded.

"Cured the poison, Madam," Ashleigh said. "And healed you. You're going to live."

His wrist was let go abruptly, but he was startled to find a dagger at his throat, held by the hand that wore the heavy glove. The cloak was back behind her shoulders now, and it was quite clear that her lopsided appearance was due to the shoulder on that side being more muscled than her left one. Ashleigh took this in without moving his head.

"You Breton dog," said the Altmer. "I ought to cut your throat for that bit of charity."

There was no sign of the bartender. Perhaps he was hiding.

"Might I inquire why?" Ashleigh asked, between his teeth. The dagger at his throat seemed to hum softly, as if the enchantment were more powerful than the materials could bear. It had an odd texture against his skin, more like rough crystal than steel. He found it difficult to have any doubt about its ability to cut him.

"I have eaten the sin of the Tribe Unmourned," said the Altmer. "My gods are dead or gone, and for love of the Merciful Goddess I am marked forever, for it was Her Hands who took my eye from me. There are few whom I have loved, Breton. All are dead. I came here looking for Caius Cosades, for he was the last; and he, too, is gone."

Prideaux stifled a cough. The point of the knife left a small scratch on his throat as the apple bobbed.

"Then what are you waiting for?" he asked quietly. "Did you not say that flesh is faithless? Mine has failed me many a time, and will again. I did not anticipate that my journey would end here, but if it does, I am not afraid." He was somewhat surprised to learn that this was true. He was too tired for that. The fever was high, and the wild song of the potion in his blood had faded and left his magicka full and his mind empty.

The mer stared at him with her one dark eye for a long moment. It was clear that she had not been a lovely woman even before the scars. Her face was much too angular, androgynous rather than feminine in its sharpness.

Then she put away the dagger almost as quickly as she had drawn it. Prideaux caught the flash of the crystal blade and a vague impression that the design was Dwemer, like the gauntlet, before it vanished into the sheath.

"I am sorry that I called you a dog," she said. "What you did was a good and a right thing. 'Tis not your fault I have no wish to live." She added, almost as an afterthought, "My name is Reilonde."

"Madam Raylondah," Prideaux pronounced carefully and, he felt, almost correctly. "I am Ashleigh Prideaux."

"How d'you do," said Reilonde glumly. She turned to toss off the rest of the glass of brandy, set it firmly on the bar, and got up. "You can get up, Barkeep. If I'm to live, I might as well have a room for the night."

"Er," said the barkeep's voice from below the bar. He did not seem inclined to rise.

"He promised the room to me," said Ashleigh. "I gather that there's just the one. I'll be happy to share it, if you'd like. I am feeling rather poorly and want nothing more than to rest." Under better circumstances he would simply leave, but he was well aware that there was no place to lodge nearby and he could not possibly walk all the way back to the Tiber Septim Hotel.

"That I can well believe," said Reilonde. "And I'd as soon do that as try and find another room in the City this time of day. I will accept your offer, Master Prideaux."

_Wonderful, _thought Prideaux, but he kept this to himself. Instead he listened to the bartender's nervous directions, picked up the saddlebags once more, and made his weary way back to the room. There he dropped the luggage beside the double bed, flopped down on one side of it, and knew nothing more for some time.

"You'd better be getting up, Sir," said a piercing soprano. Ashleigh winced. His head hurt, which was odd, because he wasn't a drinking man -

The events of the previous day came back in a rush. He opened his eyes to find himself looking at a square brass belt buckle of uncommon size. The belt itself seemed to have a row of tassels around it, inexplicably gaudy compared to the plain leathers it covered. Prideaux's glance traveled upward to encounter the severe face of Reilonde, whose tunic was now roughly stitched back together. It was still stained. It probably would always be stained.

"Oh dear," he said weakly as he sat up. "I do apologize. I really should have offered to take the floor."

"Devil a bit of it," said Reilonde. "I just slept on the other side, and glad enough to get it, believe me. I've slept on the hard ground often enough. I didn't like to wake you, but it's near to eleven and the barkeep will be wanting his room back." She rubbed at her empty right socket absently. "Looks like your fever's broke, anyway. Now you look like a ghost instead of a," she appeared to mentally edit a statement. "Instead of someone with very pink cheeks."

"It often does go during the night," said Prideaux. He rummaged until he found his comb and set about doing what he could for his hair. He expected the Altmer to leave at this point, but she went and sat down on the room's one chair instead, watching him. Her long braid was already perfectly neat. No doubt she'd finished her own grooming before she woke him.

"You've been ill a long time, then," she said. It didn't really sound like a question, but then, the odd intonation of her voice made tone hard to distinguish.

"Two years," said Prideaux.

"This is why you left High Rock, is it?" asked Reilonde.

"Yes and no. My family's estate was sold to pay my brother's debts. I did not wish to stay." He finished tying back his hair with the ribbon and bent to put the comb away. "And I take it you come from Vvardenfell."

"Nay, I came from the Summerset Isles if anywhere, though that was long enough ago," said Reilonde. "They shipped me to Vvardenfell after I got sent to jail for – well, never mind for what. I've paid my debt to the Empire." She seemed to brood on this as Prideaux extracted a hunk of dry bread from his meager store. He offered her half of it. She shook her head. He choked down a few morsels and washed them down with another vial of magicka restorative. It cleared the headache as if by magic. He sighed.

"And where will you go now, Ashleigh Prideaux?" Reilonde asked.

"To the Arcane University, to see if anyone there can cure me," he said. "After that, I'm not sure. The seer who spoke to me was somewhat vague."

"Seers often are," said Reilonde.

"I suppose I'll try and find work as a Guild mage. It's what I know how to do."

The Altmer nodded seriously. "And I will come with you," she said.

Prideaux stared at her.

"I beg your _pardon_, Ma'am?"

"I said I will come with you," repeated Reilonde, in a tone that indicated no more possibility of doubt than if she had said the sky was blue. "Saved my life, did you not? That is a debt I must repay, Master Prideaux. 'Tis only right."

"Impossible," he said, as firmly as he could. "I came on horseback, you know. A walking person would slow me down, and the gelding cannot carry us both."

"Then 'tis fortunate I have my own horse," said Reilonde. She smiled tightly. Her lips were thin, and the left corner was marked by one of the crisscrossing scars. The cut had been so clean that the lip was not dragged out of shape. "Quartered in the same stable as your own, I'll be bound."

"I think you are setting yourself up for a very long and dull journey, Madam," said Prideaux. "I've only been in Cyrodiil for a little while. No one really _wants _to kill me. Except possibly for the odd bandit," he added, in reluctant deference to recent events.

"Then I must hope we run into this odd bandit soon, Sir," said Reilonde. "I assure you I have no other plans."

"I see. I suppose we might as well start for the University, then." He stood up, noticing as he did that Reilonde was only a couple of inches shorter than himself. That made her rather tall for a woman, even an Altmeri. In fact, given the typical Altmeri body type, her sharp face, and her scars, she could easily pass for a male of that race. Until she started walking, at least. And even then, Prideaux had seen a few male Altmer who were graceful enough to be called effeminate, certainly more so than Reilonde's half-swaggering sashay as she preceded him through the tavern deck.

Only her voice was unequivocally feminine, although that tended to remind him of his great-aunt who, as far as he knew, still lived in a tower in High Rock with several cats and a succession of increasingly younger men. Fey she might be, but there was no ethereal elven mystique about Reilonde.

In fact, she cut something of a piratical figure as they moved down the Waterfront. Folk who paid no attention to Ashleigh, bent under his saddlebags, stared openly at the Altmer. One lithe Dunmer woman fingered a saber as they passed. Reilonde seemed not to notice.

They got all the way to the Arboretum before there was trouble.

It was an attractive place, really. The stone sidewalk proceeded along between well-groomed bushes, the ground was lined with flowering plants as well as the ubiquitous fly amanita, and there were well-kept statues of people in elegant and highly symbolic-looking clothing whom Ashleigh took to represent the Nine Divines. The people they passed spoke in soft voices, as if they were in a library, and there were stone benches here and there for seating.

They were passing down a quiet avenue when a bolt of lightning shot out of the bushes and struck Reilonde in the chest. She was thrown backward off the path, and Prideaux dropped his saddlebags and cast a spell of invisibility at almost the same instant. He dropped flat to the ground. Further lightning bolts kissed the pavement to his immediate left and right, where he would have been had he chosen to move aside instead of ducking. A vague shimmer in the air suggested the attacker's position.

_A chameleon spell. Very clever. _Unlike Ashleigh's current invisibility, the effect would not vanish at the moment of casting. And, as long as a person remained completely still, the effect could be equally effective at concealment.

Prideaux rose into a crouch, gathered up his magicka, and fired about half of it in a sphere of freezing light. He had to dodge again immediately, because the assassin threw another spell the moment he became visible. Quiet swearing suggested that at least the nimbus of his spell had caught the enemy. Prideaux smiled tightly from behind a statue's pedestal and looked around for Reilonde. There was no sign of her. The saddlebags were out of reach, but he still had his satchel of potions slung around his shoulder. He fumbled a vial out and downed the fizzing contents. Ashleigh grinned ferally as the magicka rose toward its peak again. He cast the most powerful shield spell in his arsenal, stood up, and stepped out onto the path.

A fireball blasted him almost immediately. It singed his eyebrows and the hems of his robes, but that was all.

"By Julianos, you'll have to do better," he hissed at the unknown assailant, whose chameleon aura had not yet faded. It was probably an enchanted ring.

In answer, a ribbon of red light shot out, easily pierced the shield, and anchored itself in Prideaux's belly. He grunted at the pain as the health drain latched on. The assailant was overconfident. If you were really going to draw the life out of someone else by magicka, you had to be better able to withdraw it than they were to hold on to it.

And the ribbon would give away your position, of course. Ashleigh threw a lightning bolt at the source of the ribbon, only to see the red light twitch and fade. The chameleon effect flickered as the assailant staggered back.

Then Reilonde stepped out from behind a bush, seized the invisible enemy by – well, Ashleigh wasn't sure, but probably the throat – and stabbed him in approximately the left ribs. She did it three times in quick succession, the dagger flickering in and out as if she were sewing with a needle. The small spurts of blood apparently appearing out of thin air were entirely surreal. Reilonde hunched her larger right shoulder to deflect a blow. Then she jabbed the stiffened fingers of her left hand at the enemy's throat as she slashed with the crystal dagger in the other hand. Her thin lips were pursed in what looked to Prideaux like disapproval. It reminded him once again of his great-aunt, which was more than unnerving under the circumstances.

There was a clatter. A ring made of carved ebony rolled on the cobbles at Ashleigh's feet, followed by a litter of severed digits. Reilonde now faced an Imperial in ordinary linen garments, a brown-haired and unremarkable man who might pass for any of the City's ordinary citizens, except for his bleeding, fingerless stub of a left hand. He blasted Reilonde with another shock spell at close range. There was a blinding flash, a stink of ozone and burnt flesh. Ashleigh lowered his arm and blinked his eyes open to see the assailant twitching on the cobbles. His eyes were blindly open to the sky. Reilonde still stood with her gauntleted right arm uplifted before her face, dagger in hand. The dull Dwemer metal of gauntlet and haft steamed faintly.

She shook her head as she looked down at the body. "Came a lot closer last time," she said, and knelt to jab the dagger into the man's eye socket.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: You're going to think I invented the rank of Master-Wizard, but I didn't. The ES Construction Set gives this as Raminus Polus' rank within the Mages Guild faction. In fact, the Faction ranks from lowest to highest are Associate, Apprentice, Journeyman, Evoker, Conjurer, Magician, Warlock, Wizard, Master-Wizard, and Archmage; all the guild heads are Wizard level. Females of the rank of Warlock are referred to as Warlock, I assume because of the baggage associated with the word _witch; _after all, ladies in the Guild are neither broomstick-riding hags nor are they nature-loving goddess-centric Wiccans. They're slightly pompous, highly educated people in robes or gowns who read a lot, worship a god named Julianos and give each other funny salutes, just like male mages do._

Chapter 5

"That's quite a reflective enchantment," Ashleigh said. His shield faded slowly around him, leaving him feeling slightly weak. He turned wearily to look for the saddlebags. Nothing important seemed to have been trod on.

"So it is," agreed Reilonde briefly. She wiped the dagger on the dead man's shirt. Then she seized the body by one leg and dragged it into the bushes. "D'you want his ring? I've no use for it." She seemed to have a fine ring of her own, Ashleigh noticed, made of silver metal with a long, rectangular stone of dark purple. She wore it on the first finger of her left hand. He supposed it would be pointless to wear rings under the Dwemer gauntlet, although there certainly looked to be room for that.

"Thank you, but I try to refrain from robbing the dead," said Ashleigh. "Did I understand you to imply that this is a Dark Brotherhood assassin?"

"It was," said Reilonde. "Now 'tis a sad corpse like any other sad corpse. Are you injured, Ashleigh Prideaux?"

"Nothing serious," said Prideaux. He cast a healing spell and idly watched the blue light spiral up past his eyes. "What about you? Or do you not suffer from the typical Altmeri elemental weakness?"

"Not any more," said Reilonde, sheathing her dagger.

"Tell me again how much safer I am in your presence than alone," said Prideaux.

The Altmer shrugged lopsidedly. "You're alive, are you not?"

"Yes," said Prideaux. "Which matters not a whit, given that I would have been in no danger had I not been accompanied by someone whom the Dark Brotherhood wishes to kill."

"'Tis little to do with their wishes," said Reilonde. "Strictly a business matter."

"Very reassuring," said Prideaux acidly.

"And in any case, you'll not be rid of me yet. T'would appear you are quite competent in your own defense." She brushed the remaining severed fingers fastidiously off the path with one leather-clad toe. A couple of small smears were left behind. The dagger had cut so cleanly that there had not been much bleeding.

"When the power's there," agreed Prideaux. "The problem is that my magicka is stunted. It doesn't regenerate on its own. That's why I carry so many potions." He patted the potion satchel at his hip with his free hand.

"Ah," said Reilonde. "Shall we proceed to this University of yours, then?"

"Shouldn't we inform a guard?" he asked uncertainly. Assassination attempts were not uncommon in High Rock, although the Prideaux family had been sufficiently minor that its quarrels were usually carried out by way of nasty letters and the occasional snub on social occasions. But that was High Rock, where every hill had a king and every king was a law unto himself, Imperial rule be damned. He had expected things to be different here in law-abiding Cyrodiil.

"You may if you like," said Reilonde. "You can pray to Dibella for a pair of tits, too, and _she _won't arrest you for murder. Did that man look like an assassin to you?"

"No," said Prideaux.

"So it's only your word and mine that he attacked us, aye? And we do not look like law-abiding citizens, Master Prideaux."

"_I _do," muttered Ashleigh, but he let it go at that. They set off toward the distant gate. No one seemed disposed to come and investigate the noise or the light of spellfire. Perhaps everything really had been hidden by the greenery.

The Arcane University was, indeed, reached by a bridge. It arched out over the gulf between the City proper and the great rocky hill on which the stone buildings and the encircling wall of the University stood. A cold wind licked at Ashleigh's face and fingered down the high round collar of his plain robe as they crossed. Reilonde's cloak waved about her ankles. She had pulled her hood up again, for some reason. Ashleigh devoutly hoped she was not expecting further attacks inside the precincts of an institute of higher learning. He didn't care to be thrown out before he convinced anyone to answer his question.

It appeared that whomever had built the University had been guided by a similar architectural perversity to that which had inspired the builder of the City itself. The walls were in the round, and the center of the property was occupied by a raised foundation topped by a stone dome and a tower in the Ayleid style (although it was certainly much shorter than White Gold Tower). Ashleigh passed through the open outer gate and mounted the stairs up to the tower with considerable fortitude and also considerable stifled coughing.

_Julianos defend me from Ayleid architects and their fixation with stairs and levels, _he thought glumly. High Rock had more than its share of peculiar architecture, admittedly, but at least you could levitate there. There wasn't the peculiar magic field native to Cyrodiil that made really mage-worthy forms of locomotion impossible.

There seemed to be a lot of Legion battlemages about, wearing the usual dull plate. They had made a small concession to their status as mages by wearing hoods instead of helmets. Since this could hardly be useful as armor, and none of the hoods appeared enchanted to his practiced eye, he assumed this was for visual solidarity.

_Set mages to guard the mages. Well, whoever is ruling now, they're not a fool._

He almost never wore hoods himself. They didn't provide enough warmth to make a difference, it bothered him not to have peripheral vision, and he had never really had a need to conceal his identity. He was the younger son of a bankrupt house of extremely minor gentry. Nobody in High Rock would pay him any mind, let alone folk in this strange foreign place which, he couldn't help noticing, already had its share of tall hatchet-faced Bretons, some of them among the battlemages who were eyeballing him as he paused to catch his breath at the top of the stairs.

Not that most of them had ever seen High Rock, of course. _Their _families had had sense enough to emigrate, probably generations before. But then, common sense seemed to be a quantity firmly allocated to the Imperial subset of humanity, not the Breton, or what was he doing here with Reilonde?

Ashleigh cleared his throat one more time, straightened up, and pushed through the door into the base of the tower.

He was in a small, round lobby with a stone floor and a high ceiling. The light was very dim, but magicka was so thick in the air that the ends of his hair began to rise. There were a couple of display cases, a couple of benches, and a large, gaudy magical transporter pad off to one side.

"Ye gods, what is that?" he asked of no one in particular.

"It accesses the Archmage's chambers," said a male voice. "Archmage Traven wanted it to be clear that he's available whenever he's needed."

Prideaux turned to see a stocky Imperial in a plain blue robe watching him with polite interest. His hair was cropped short, and it was brown with only a couple of small streaks of gray. There was no visible clue to his rank, and the atmosphere of power was too dense to adequately read his aura. He returned Prideaux's awkward mage salute easily.

"I do beg your pardon," Ashleigh said. "I'm Ashleigh Prideaux. I've come a long way seeking counsel. Perhaps you can refer me to the right party."

"I'm Master-Wizard Raminus Polus, and I probably can," said the man. "What's your Guild rank?"

Ashleigh blinked. That had not come up in his visits to the individual Guilds. But then, he had not been to Bruma or Cheydinhal, where he had heard the guild-heads were more strict about protocol.

"Er," said Prideaux. "That is a bit of an awkward one, Master-Wizard. I was apprenticed in High Rock, you see. They use a slightly... different system."

_Specifically, if you're from a mage family, you're an apprentice from birth until you're good enough to kill whoever's your master. Rankings after that don't matter. Which in my case would've meant quite a spanking duel with my father, since he taught me. _It was traditional not to actually kill your parent, unless there was some other good reason, such as that you wanted to inherit early. That was moot in Ashleigh's case. He was a younger son with nothing _to _inherit, he had quite liked his father, and it didn't matter anyway, because his father had been poisoned by one of his uncles over quite a different matter when Ashleigh was twenty.

He hadn't had to do anything to the uncle. His elder brother, backward in financial matters but always competent to deal with anything sufficiently violent, had seen to that. He _had _had to go looking for someone else to challenge to establish his bona fides, though. He'd got through quite a few of them before a convocation of local mages was formed to declare him officially out of apprenticeship and to for the gods' sake stop pestering everyone.

"To the best of my knowledge, I am of approximately the rank of Magician," said Prideaux. "I have not been evaluated for equivalency since I came to Cyrodiil."

"I see," said Raminus Polus. "That's fine by me, but I'm afraid you may encounter some trouble with your guildmates if the issue comes up. If I were you I'd get myself evaluated as soon as possible, to avoid confusion."

"Thank you for the advice, Sir," said Prideaux. He set down the saddlebags on a bench, the better to continue the conversation unencumbered. "How would I go about doing that?" It didn't bear on his immediate problem, but if he was going to work for the Guild in future, it would be important to have his credentials properly established.

"I suppose it's probably best if I do it," said the Master-Wizard thoughtfully. "I don't care to trouble the Archmage with it. I'll need a day or so to think of something appropriate. Perhaps you could spend the time seeking counsel on that other matter? You're welcome to stay in the Mage Quarters here. It's the third door going clockwise once you're in the inner court." He looked at Reilonde, who was still hooded. She stood leaning against the wall, arms at her sides and hidden by the cloak. "Your friend is welcome also, of course." He seemed aware that the Altmer was not a mage, though Prideaux wasn't sure how. "I know how difficult it is to find lodging in the City, and there's really nothing nearby."

"I do appreciate this, Sir," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "To whom should I speak about curses and illness?"

"We don't have an infirmarian, as such," said Polus. "Usually if someone's seriously injured in practice, it's taken care of at the Praxographical center. If there's a spell that can be cast by man or mer, Borissean or Gaspar will know it. They've done considerable research into the creation of new spells as well. Yes, I would try there."

Ashleigh thanked him again, repeated the salute (Raminus returned it bemusedly), and took his leave. He turned toward the mage quarters first, eager to put down the saddlebags. The inner court was a great arc, with doors at intervals that looked a bit lost in the massive fronts of carven stone. It was as if they had been built into a cliff wall instead of the great wall of the University.

The interior looked a great deal like the interior of most buildings in the Imperial City – stone walls, tile floor, heavy, square wooden furniture. The bottom floor was full of cheerful young apprentices in their matching blue robes, chatting and arguing. Ashleigh eyed them dyspeptically and turned to go up the stairs (of _course _there were stairs) up to the next floor.

It was quieter here. There were rows of beds, a couple of barrels that smelled vaguely of fresh produce, and a soft, dim light with no apparent source. There were no windows. He found the bed that was furthest from the door, near a pigeonholed desk in the corner, and plumped the saddlebags down on the coverlet. Reilonde looked around without removing her hood. _She _wasn't breathing hard, he observed glumly.

"Are you expecting someone to recognize you?" Ashleigh asked. He dared not sit down on the coverlet, lest he find it too difficult to get up again. He took a small metal bracelet from inside one bag, gathered the band that connected the two, and snapped the bracelet closed around it. A thin sheen of enchantment spread over the surface. He was not really afraid of thieves, not here, but apprentices were probably just as prank-obsessed here as in High Rock (albeit with somewhat less deadly intent, he hoped). This way he kept his possessions safe and marked the bed for his later use as well.

"Nay," said Reilonde. "But mine is a face that provokes the curious and primes the memory, and I would do neither in this place."

"I see," said Ashleigh, who felt it would not be tactful to directly agree with this. He could certainly sympathize with a desire not to be stared at by the apprentices. "Well. Off to the Praxographical Center, I suppose..."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"It's an odd one," said Borissean thoughtfully. He was a chocolate-skinned Redguard of typical mage slenderness, but unlike the other folk Ashleigh had thus far seen at the University, he wore a long fur-trimmed jacket of maroon velvet and matching hose. The top of his head was bald, and the hair on the sides was white. For some reason Ashleigh was unable to fathom, this looked distinguished on him instead of faintly ridiculous, the way it generally did on humans of paler complexion. Perhaps it was his craggy profile. The clothing said _luxury, _but the solemn lines into which age had set his face said _ascetic._

His apparent partner in the Praxographical Center, Gaspar Stegine, could hardly have resembled him less. Gaspar was broad-shouldered for a Breton, pale, and still dark-haired enough to have a permanent five o'clock shadow. He wore the typical blue robe and hood. And, to complete the picture, his tight-jawed accent (he was, Ashleigh calculated, from about sixty miles east of the Prideaux estate) sounded nothing at all like Borissean's crisp Cyrodilic enunciation of consonants. Only the contemplative expression on the two faces was similar.

"So I have been told, Sirs," said Ashleigh. He looked around at the Center, trying to remain nonchalant. It was indistinguishable from the Mage Quarters, except that it was occupied by counters and the golden altars of spellmaking and enchanting that looked, for reasons he had never been able to fathom, like unusual gaudy lecterns. Ashleigh had been asked to seat himself atop a low wooden counter while the two Wizards examined him. Up this close, the effect of that much magical power in a small space raised the hairs along the back of his neck. His skin tingled.

Reilonde was nonchalantly reading a book that Gaspar Stegine had set down as he came down the stairs. She sat with her booted feet crossed, sitting on the sixth or seventh step. An Altmer certainly should be sensitive to the atmosphere of heightened magical presence, but she appeared to notice nothing.

"Let's hear the cough again, please," said Gaspar Stegine. Ashleigh found it all to easy to comply. Wizard Stegine listened closely, frowning. "That sounds fairly dry. But you do get fevers from time to time?"

"Yes," said Ashleigh. "They are worse with fatigue or exertion, and they nearly always happen in the late afternoon to evening."

"Has there been any discharge of blood?" asked Borissean.

"Very rarely," said Ashleigh. "Once I caught some sort of head cold on top of this. Took me almost a month to recover completely, to the extent that's possible. I saw a little blood then."

"But you did recover," said Stegine. "And it doesn't seem to have gotten much worse. That makes it sound rather unlike any consumptive illness I've seen." Beside him, Borissean nodded agreement.

"I do not think it is consumption," said Ashleigh, as respectfully as possible. "Chapel healers can cure that. And I have been to many Chapels, Sir."

"That rules out a number of other possibilities as well," said Borissean. The two Wizards exchanged a significant glance.

Ashleigh nodded, trying to suppress any indication of bored frustration. He had had this same conversation with more than one senior mage over the last two years.

"Have you ever been to Morrowind? Vvardenfell, that is?" asked Gaspar Stegine.

"No," said Ashleigh. "I'd never been more than a hundred miles from home, until I came to Cyrodiil."

Another significant glance.

"Still..." said Borissean.

"Not black heart. Not ash chancre, either. He's got too much magicka in him for most of them," said Stegine. Ashleigh had noticed that he seemed to speak more than his partner. "Not even the old divine disease, though I understand that's extinct now."

"But if it were some form of blight," said Borissean slowly. "They're inexperienced with those."

"We'd like to try a blight cure first," Gaspar Stegine said, turning abruptly to Ashleigh.

"Anything you like, Sirs," said Ashleigh glumly. He now knew how the day was going to go.

He was more or less correct. The two Wizards poked, prodded, questioned, and cast various spells from the School of Restoration which had absolutely no effect. Like others he had consulted, they were initially interested in his stunted magicka, requiring him to explain once again that he had been born that way and the disease was of much more recent date.

They both paid _very _close attention to his account of his conversation with Dagail, however. Even Reilonde put down the book silently and appeared to listen.

"Ah, poor Dagail," said Gaspar Stegine, but Borissean cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Was she wearing the amulet, Magician?" he asked Ashleigh.

"Yes," said Prideaux. "I remember it quite distinctly."

"Tell us the prophecies again," said Gaspar Stegine. "Word for word, if you can. It may be very important."

"I said the disease would not leave me and had not killed me," Ashleigh said. "Then she said_..._" he repeated the prediction and the three messages from memory. He had had plenty of time to memorize them over his journey.

"Have any of these come true yet?" asked Borissean.

"I met a mad Argonian who saved my life," Ashleigh said. "Before I met Dagail. I told her that, and she said we'd probably meet again. And..." he shot a sideways glance at Reilonde. "I believe that I have saved one who could destroy me. Yes."

Gaspar Stegine stared at Reilonde in open curiosity for a moment, but Borissean did not pursue the question.

"I have as yet not found a significance for the color black as cited," said Ashleigh.

"I have a feeling all of this may have some astrological significance," said Gaspar to Borissean. "Don't you?" The Redguard nodded. Stegine turned back to Ashleigh with, he was beginning to realize, characteristic abruptness. "Magician Prideaux, what is your birth sign?"

"The Atronach," said Prideaux.

"We'll have to look at the star charts," began Stegine, but Borissean was shaking his head.

"No, we don't," he said in his soft voice. "I can tell you. The Atronach will be opposite the White Grave in two weeks."

"What constellation is that?" asked Ashleigh, who had never paid much attention to astrology.

"Not a constellation," said Borissean grimly. "A single star."

"It appears near the horizon every year or so," said Gaspar Stegine. "The Chimer believed it was the mouth of Coldharbour."

"Coldharbour, meaning the plane of Molag Bal," said Ashleigh. A quite irrational tremor gripped his innards.

"Exactly," said Stegine. "And it aligns with the Atronach about one night in every twenty years. There is no danger to Nirn from the White Grave – even if it were the mouth of Coldharbour, it is too far off to stage an invasion – but the Chimer magi seem to have had quite a superstitious fear of it. They would not step outside their homes when the White Grave was visible, and vampires were believed to be more powerful than usual during the night of its ascendancy."

"I would like to see the star chart," said Reilonde unexpectedly, setting down the book. Ashleigh stared at her. To this point he had assumed her to be quite disinterested in this dull and scholarly conversation.

"Of course, Ma'am," said Borissean. He went to a book shelf at the other end of the room and returned with a roll of parchment, which he laid out on the counter beside Ashleigh. Reilonde came forward and bent over it, her hood mostly hiding her face. Ashleigh noticed she traced the star lines with her left hand. The gauntleted right remained hidden in a fold of the cloak.

"The Atronach is not the only sign whose position with regard to the White Grave will be significant on that date," said Gaspar Stegine. "I don't suppose your friend was born under the Shadow?"

"Madam?" said Ashleigh.

Reilonde shook her head. "No aspect so useful as that, Master Prideaux. Though 'twould appear mine has a part to play as well."

"You would be well advised to ally yourself with a Shadow-born," said Gaspar Stegine. "The color black from Dagail's prophecy may even refer to that. Whatever is about to happen to you is almost certainly connected to your illness, and the Shadow is a powerful ally against Molag Bal during the ascendancy. Not that such a person could defend you against a Prince of Oblivion, but I don't think the King of Rape will be involved directly. We would have caught the ripples of an event that powerful and that near in time."

"Thank the Divines," said Ashleigh.

"Always a good idea, but it may be premature," said Borissean dryly.

"Another reason for the connection may have to do with the fact that vampires _are _more powerful during this time," said Gaspar Stegine. "If your enemy wishes to harm you, and knows you are of the Atronach sign..."

"And is a vampire?" Ashleigh blinked. "I am quite certain I am not acquainted with any vampires. In fact, my circle of acquaintanceship has always been remarkably small."

"Don't be so sure," said Borissean.

"I imagine you're good at perceiving magicka, Magician," said Gaspar Stegine. "But an old enough vampire might still be able to conceal their nature from you. A few can walk in daylight and look quite ordinary, if they've fed recently. And among other powerful mages, which I understand to be somewhat common in High Rock, they would be less conspicuous as well."

"Could they pass for human or mer after significant blood loss?" asked Ashleigh, acting on a sudden suspicion.

"I doubt it," said Borissean. "Blood is life. A vampire at its most lifeless is very easy to identify. It would be unnaturally pale for its race, and appear very aged."

"Ah." He dismissed the idea with relief, avoiding Reilonde's sudden stare. She looked away quickly as she rolled up the star chart and gave it back to Borissean. The elder Redguard went to restore it to its place on the shelf. "But you still cannot tell what this disease is, or what caused it."

"I'm afraid not," said Gaspar Stegine, who seemed to have no qualm about speaking for both of them. "You've had no nightmares or other such signs, so it doesn't seem to be a curse. Those tend to be a bit more dramatic in any case. I'm afraid it's quite possible it may just be an inborn defect of the respiratory tract that didn't show itself until your body was fully mature. There are such diseases."

He refrained, probably very diplomatically for him, from adding _particularly in places where inbreeding is common. _Ashleigh's parents had not, to his knowledge, been cousins or any such thing, but practically everyone in High Rock was at least distantly related to everyone else. The addition of High Elf blood to the mix had helped only a little, since the Altmer themselves were well known for their desire to keep their bloodlines pure through close breeding.

"Yes," said Ashleigh, a bit more shortly than he intended. He apologized at once. "I do beg your pardon. I greatly appreciate your counsel and your time. I will bear your words in mind in the coming days. Which night exactly is the alignment?"

Borissean named a date that, indeed, fell in approximately fourteen days.

"Thank you, Wizard," said Prideaux. He nodded to Gaspar Stegine. "And... Wizard. I will not trespass further on your time."

"You watch yourself, friend," said Gaspar Stegine, as Ashleigh slid off the countertop. His potion satchel clinked at his hip. "These are strange matters, and more than your own life may be at stake."

"I certainly hope not," said Ashleigh Prideaux, with feeling.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Perhaps you ought to look for a Shadow-born mage, then," said Reilonde. They were in the small garden near the Lustratorium, in the lee of the wall. The day's shadows were lengthening. Ashleigh sat on a stone bench, looking without much interest at the wild profusion of flowers in their stone circle in front of him. Other plants climbed up the bench, the wall, and the pillars that circled the little plot. The leaves of a morning glory tickled his scalp as he leaned back against the wall. Reilonde stood leaning her lower shoulder against a small pillar, lean and cloaked and looking quite out of place.

Prideaux shook his head. "I appreciate the thought, but it's no use. Almost everyone here is either a student or a teacher. Either they don't know enough to keep themselves alive, or they're so absorbed in research that they'll never leave this place." He sighed, then coughed when the air flow irritated his raw throat. "Besides, people who are born under the Shadow practically never learn magery. The Apprentice, or the Mage, or even, gods help me, the Atronach, but not the Shadow."

"Aye, so one hears, Master Prideaux," said Reilonde. "But sure and there must be some of that sign who are unsuited to the life of a thief or a robber."

"Without any doubt, Madam," said Ashleigh. "But even if I could find such a person, how should I ask them to come with me into danger, possibly to death? I need not know what peril I face when I'm going to it in _your _company. What _do_ the Dark Brotherhood want you for?"

"As I said before, 'tis only a matter of business for them," said Reilonde. "Though I suppose they would relish the chance to recover the reputation of their fallen colleagues in Mournhold. I know not who bought the contract under which they act, so I cannot stop it." She looked around them briefly, made sure the foliage screened her from being seen in the distance, and flipped back her hood again. "Were I to hazard a guess, I would say it was probably one of Her Hands who could not find me himself. It cannot be someone truly wealthy, else they would be sending better assassins than that last one."

"The Hands of Almalexia?" Ashleigh stared at her. "Why would a religious order dedicated to a dead deity pay to have you murdered?"

"D'you know who struck down the Merciful Goddess, Ashleigh Prideaux?" asked Reilonde, lowering her voice. "Who it was that found the shriveled corpse of Sotha Sil in his own house, where she had left him?"

"I heard that it was," he said, and shut his lips tightly as he looked at Reilonde.

_Nerevar reborn, who went to Mournhold after she slew the demon-god Dagoth Ur, _said an inexorable voice in his mind_._

_The Nerevarine, who destroyed the Heart of Lorkhan using the Tools of Kagrenac. The hero against whom not even gods could stand._

Kagrenac's history was well known to Ashleigh. He was quite certain the Tools would be Dwemer in appearance. He felt a small tight feeling in his belly, as if someone were about to hit him. It was a familiar sensation, but no less unpleasant for that.

He stood up carefully, so that he could look into her single eye. He stifled another cough without noticing.

"That dagger you carry," he said. "Does it have a name?"

"Aye," said Reilonde. "It is called Keening."

_Stendarr protect us._

"Was there another such weapon? A hammer, perhaps?" Ashleigh asked. Reilonde nodded.

"I gave Sunder into better hands than mine, and it is gone from the world," she said softly. It seemed unnatural for her high, sharp voice, like listening to an eagle try to sing. "Other weapons have passed through my hands, but none I loved so well as Keening. For my life, I could not part with it."

"You are the Nerevarine," said Ashleigh Prideaux. His voice came out as a hoarse rasp. He cleared it impatiently.

"Aye, Master Prideaux," said Reilonde. She shook herself. "That I am. Did I not tell you when we met that I have eaten the sin of the Tribe Unmourned? 'Tis the verse of a very old prophecy."

"I didn't understand," said Ashleigh. "I didn't know." He ran his hands back over his hair distractedly. "...Saved one who could destroy me... Me? Gods and daedra!" He resisted the urge to shout. This was _not _something he wanted known to everyone at the University. "You could bring what's left of the _Empire _crashing down around your ears, Madam," he hissed. "I thought you had gone to Akavir!"

"I did go to Akavir," said Reilonde. "And twenty good men and women went with me. And of all that went into that strange and terrible country, only I escaped alive." She ran one fingernail down one of the crisscrossing lines on her face. "'Twas there I came by these, and many hours' work by a craftsman they were, I assure you." She smiled, a tight, hard little expression that had as much to do with humor as swords have to do with pruning hedges.

"What can you possibly want with me?" Prideaux demanded.

"I wanted naught to do with you, nor anyone else," she said sharply. "I wanted to die alone drinking brandy. But you put a stop to that, did you not? 'Tis only yourself you have to blame for what follows."

"Too true," said Ashleigh Prideaux. He sat down limply on the bench.

"Too much time you spend lost in your own little world," said the Altmer. She folded her arms. "Else you would have guessed much sooner and not gone off into silly ideas. Me, a vampire? Ha. Nothing can infect one who has had the divine disease, Ashleigh Prideaux. And that includes porphyric hemophilia."

"It was not at all a silly idea," he said with dignity. "One does not _assume _the reincarnation of Nerevar would be drinking in a bar on the Imperial City Waterfront."

He felt that the web of fate must be somehow woven askew, a thread tied in where it did not belong.

"You should have been saved by someone important," he said. "The Hero of Kvatch, perhaps. Then you could have gone on to," he waved a hand. "To save all Tamriel from something. It should follow quite logically."

"The Hero of Kvatch has her own troubles," said Reilonde. "The deeds that earn us renown earn us bitter enemies as well, and we save strangers and watch friends perish. Nay, I would not wish myself on Thrissi the Luckless. When last I saw her, she seemed to have found some measure of peace." She sniffed, a small, disdainful sound. "But there can be no peace for me, Ashleigh Prideaux. And it seems trouble will find you whether I am here or no. Shall I not be there to fight it? Shall I not lay my hands on evil where I may?"

"_I _wouldn't stop you," said Ashleigh. "If there were any possibility that I could." He eyed her. "It just seems to me that involving yourself with my particular trouble is somewhat akin to swatting gadflies with a warhammer. Somebody is apt to lose a finger."

_And that somebody will be me, _he thought, coughing gloomily_. And by _lose a finger, _I believe I mean _die screaming.

"Now that, I have not yet done," said Reilonde, quite calmly. "Although I do lack a couple of toes and all the nails thereof, I admit. 'Tis too early to concern yourself with these things, in any case. You must yet pass the Master-Wizard's test and claim your rank, aye?"

"Yes," said Ashleigh, who now thought the delay much more inconvenient than he had thought it that morning. "And I sincerely hope that any further attempts at assassination wait until we have left the University."

"'Twould ordinarily be a couple of days before they can find another that will accept such a contract," said Reilonde. "The first few who took it did not know they faced Nerevar reborn. The next few thought themselves equal to the task. Now all of those are dead. Those who would try now are either so low in rank and skill that they have nothing to lose, or so utterly mad that they do not care for the hazard."

"Once again, Madam, you fail entirely to reassure me," said Ashleigh Prideaux.

"Nor the assassin in the black silks who is presently creeping down the ivy, I hope," said Reilonde sardonically. "Aye, I can see you quite clearly." Her eye was fixed on something behind and above Ashleigh. He stood up and turned slowly. A flicker in the air dissolved into a broad-shouldered, tawny-scaled Argonian, presently clinging to the ivy that ascended the wall. He was still some ten feet above the level of the Lustratorium's garden columns.

"Hallo," said a chipper baritone. Ashleigh saw an entirely unembarrassed flash of sharp teeth. "It is this one's friend the Atronach-born! This one did not expect to meet you here. But then, where else should she find a mage but at the Arcane University?"

"She?" said Reilonde.

"Juggles-One-Dozen?" Ashleigh said. "I had been told we would meet again, but I confess I did not quite expect it to be here."

"Nor did this one," said the Argonian. He somersaulted down and landed at the base of the wall, where he stood grinning at them both with one fist on a jutting hip. Prideaux could not help noticing that he now had a thick black ribbon tied around each of his two horns, matching the polish on his clawed fingers and bare toes. "This one does not make a habit of visiting premises academical. An acquaintance asked her to do a favor for which she had every expectation of receiving a nice quantity of moon sugar. She has always had a sweet tooth. It is a sad failing of the Khajiiti race."

"This favor," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "Would it be anything like the one involving the bandits?"

"There are certain commonalities," said the Argonian. He drew a dagger idly from his belt and began to spin the pommel on the tip of one claw. Prideaux noticed particularly that he was not looking at it. He was looking at Reilonde, whose gauntleted right hand was on the pommel of Keening.

"Did someone pay you to kill the Nerevarine, Madam?" Ashleigh asked bluntly.

"No, Sir," said Juggles primly, looking back at Prideaux. "They paid this one to kill a surly Altmer with one eye, whom this one was informed was currently on the University grounds for reasons which she was not told. But have no fears, Master Prideaux!" He twirled the dagger twice, ostentatiously quick, and sheathed it. "This one would by no means wish to harm Nerevar reborn." The sharp teeth reappeared. Ashleigh glanced at Reilonde, who seemed to be watching warily. "This one would not, as she told you, have innocent blood on her hands."

"Reilonde, this is Juggles-One-Dozen," said Ashleigh. He paused to cough, then tried to say the next words without special emphasis. "The Khajiiti lady who rescued me from bandits in the West Weald. Juggles, this is Reilonde, who is indeed the Nerevarine, and whom I met in the Bloated Float yesterday."

Each one bowed politely to the other. Juggles-One-Dozen, Ashleigh observed, did it more gracefully than Reilonde, whose movements were careless and abrupt.

"How d'you do," said Reilonde. She seemed to have caught the dropped cue, at least.

"This one is slightly disappointed," said Juggles bluntly. "But it cannot be helped. Ah, woe that she should find herself again the pawn of evil men! It is enough to make an honest woman despair." He turned and sprang lightly up into the ivy. "This one will have sharp words to say to her acquaintance, anyway."

"Wait," said Prideaux, belatedly remembering something. "What's your birth sign, Juggles?"

"How very curious that you should ask that," said Juggles. He came down from the ivy again, the end of his scaly tail twitching slightly. "This one was born under the Shadow. It is a sign which the folk of the Black Marsh hold in special awe, or so she was told when they had made her believe she was an Argonian boy." The Argonian's eyes narrowed at the memory. They were very green above his pointed muzzle, and the pupils were long and thin.

"Do you know anything about the White Grave?" asked Prideaux.

"White Grave?" Juggles shook his head, brow clearing. "Alas, no. This one knows hardly anything about astrology, particularly as it relates to Molag Bal."

Ashleigh opened his mouth and shut it again. He made a small mental adjustment. "It's a star," he said. "And it's going to be aligned with the Atronach in two weeks. The Wizards told me that people born under the Shadow have a special ability to resist the powers of that particular daedric prince during that time."

"Ah, you wish to bid for this one's services!" Juggles-One-Dozen nodded wisely. "Perhaps you also have sugar?"

"Well, no," admitted Ashleigh. "Nor have I much gold, alas. I don't suppose you are in need of any magical services, Madam?"

"Hmm, perhaps. Are you a very confidential person, Ashleigh Prideaux?" inquired Juggles.

"I certainly can be," said Ashleigh Prideaux.

"This one needs a certain philtre made, yes," said the Argonian, with a smile with was probably meant to be demure, but instead had somewhat the look of a friendly shark. "And this one knows you are a powerful alchemist. It should be well within your capabilities, if you are willing."

"What sort of philtre?" asked Ashleigh cautiously.

"Oh, a trifling little thing." Juggles examined his painted nails. "This one cannot seem to hang onto a knife for any length of time. It is most vexing. She would like something that can be put on whatever weapon she happens to be using at the moment, something to unlock those doors by which the spirit may be let out of the body, you understand."

"You want me to brew a poison," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "Which you are going to use to kill people. I'm not sure I can do that."

"Only very _deserving _people," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

Prideaux looked at Reilonde. Against all odds, she seemed to be trying not to smile.

"The seer did tell you, Master Prideaux," said the Altmer.

_Right. Not every unsound mind is evil. Not every sound mind is good. Fail this test, and more than my life may be forfeit..._

"Very well," sighed Prideaux. "I will brew you the deadliest philtre which it is in my power to create, in the amount of - "

"One vial," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "One of those which you use for your restoratives should suffice."

"Indeed. In exchange for which, you will do what?"

"In exchange for which, plus her bed, board, and any costs of healing or restoration, this one shall prevent your death up to and during the ascendancy," said Juggles promptly. "And immediately afterward, of course, should any particularly threatening consequences ensue."

"That... hardly seems fair," said Ashleigh Prideaux.

Juggles-One-Dozen sighed heavily. "Ah, but it drives a mickle hard bargain, this mage. Very well. This one shall attempt to safeguard Madam Reilonde as well, though that hardly seems necessary."

"Thank you, Juggles-One-Dozen," said Reilonde gravely.

"Ah, but call her Juggles, please. For two weeks at least we shall be in one another's company a great deal. Starting as soon as you have made the philtre, yes?" The Argonian arched a scaly brow at Prideaux.

"Yes, of course," said Prideaux. "I should be able to present you with it by tomorrow. It will not take long. Suppose you were to meet us in the outer court tomorrow morning? I should know by then what I will have to do to test for my rank here."

"Excellent," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "Then I shall return at the appointed time. Good day to you both." He inclined his head politely, sprang up into the ivy, and was up and over the wall in seconds.

Ashleigh and Reilonde looked after him in silence for a moment.

"What will you do if he falls in love with you, Master Prideaux?" Reilonde asked eventually.

"Small danger of that," said Prideaux. "Women of my _own _race and occupation give me no second glance, Madam. I hardly think I am likely to attract the attention of Khajiiti femmes fatale, do you?"

For the first time Prideaux had heard, Reilonde laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Ashleigh Prideax spent the brief remainder of the hours of daylight collecting ingredients for the philtre. He found a surprising plethora of different reagents growing in and around the grounds of the University, no doubt planted there for the purpose. Reilonde swaggered after him, suspiciously watching the other mages who were, indeed, suspiciously watching her. No one offered to give Prideaux any trouble. But then, the Master-Wizard's warning had not taken into account the fact that Ashleigh now firmly fitted into the category of "mysterious stranger with bodyguard" rather than "new student and easy target."

Somewhat to his surprise, Ashleigh encountered no trouble in securing the single desk in the upstairs Mage Quarters for his own use. It might have been because of his obvious seniority compared to most of the apprentices, but he suspected it was more because few of them were studying. Those who were truly serious about their book-work would be at the Mystic Archives or in some other quiet place, not here amid the distracting chatter of their classmates.

Prideaux found himself largely able to ignore that. He set up his miniaturized alchemy equipment on the desk surface, laid out his ingredients, and went to work with the mortar and pestle. Reilonde produced a book from somewhere – his surreptitious glance revealed it to be Book III of _The Argonian Account – _and sprawled on the bed next to his saddlebags to read it.

Soon lost in concentration, he noticed neither when someone placed a glass of water next to his hand (as usual when he was working, he forgot to smother his occasional coughing) nor when someone lit a candle on top of the pigeonholed backboard of the desk.

He _did _notice someone setting a pear in front of him while he was in the midst of washing the dust of a scorched and pulverized ounce of wisp stalk caps through the alembic and back into the mortar, but only because it interfered with his view of what he was doing. He paused, looking around in the owlish manner of a person awakened from sleep.

Reilonde stood beside the desk, eating an apple.

"D'you care for shepherd's pie? I found one in a crate," she said. "Quite fresh. Odd folk for storing their foodstuffs, your mages."

"Indeed they are," said Prideaux. "And I am n - " his stomach made known its objection to his intended denial. "I would be happy to divide it with you, Madam," he amended. "I am nearly finished."

"Glad I am to hear it, for if you have eaten since breakfast I'm a nix-hound. Finish what you're doing and I will fetch it."

"Thank you kindly," said Prideaux. He returned his attention to the alembic. That portion of the task accomplished, he gave the mortar a quick stir with a glass rod, wiped his fingers very carefully on a scrap of cloth he did not remember setting on the desk, and ate the pear. The contents of the mortar fumed slightly, giving forth a sharp, chemical scent reminiscent of horse liniment. Not that Prideaux would dream of rubbing it on any living animal. Not one he liked, anyway.

He set the core of the pear on the stained cloth, dug out a clean vial, and set his little glass funnel in the top of it. Then he poured the completed philtre into the funnel, noting with satisfaction that he'd got the amount exactly right – a couple of drops of water added to the existing juices had seen to that.

After he'd corked the vial and stored it carefully inside his robe, he gathered up the dirty glassware with the pear core in the cloth and laid them on the tile floor. There were enough old scorch marks on the surface that he was sure what he was about to do had been done often, but he glanced around to make sure no one was standing too close first. A few people were stretched out on the beds, but the upper quarters were still mostly empty. Apprentices in Cyrodiil must have somewhat less rigorous of a training schedule than he remembered from his own youth, judging by the amount of cheerful conversation that still drifted up the stairs. (It was very typical of Ashleigh Prideaux that, at thirty and two years of age, he no longer thought of himself as young or, indeed, remembered when he _had _thought of himself that way.)

Ashleigh drew down a pittance of magicka toward his fingers, called up the least of the fire spells that he knew, and cast it at the cloth and the glassware. The pear core and the fabric turned to dust almost immediately. The flame flared up around the equipment, blue-edged, then went out. None of the few sleepers stirred at the brief _whuff _of sound.

He heard Reilonde's sharp footsteps approaching as he gathered up the spotless glassware to restore it to his saddlebags, trying not to breathe any fumes. He tucked an oilskin wrapping in around it.

"Will you not pad it, then?" the Altmer asked behind him.

"It is not necessary," said Ashleigh. "The glass is enchanted and quite unbreakable. The only reason for the oilskin is to keep them from clinking together too loudly."

"I see. Here is your pie, and the cleanest fork I could find. It appears a bit scorched."

"Not surprising," said Ashleigh, accepting the dish and utensil graciously. "People _will _forget which materials will bear flame-cleaning and which will not. I do appreciate this, Madam. Have you eaten?"

"Oh, aye," said Reilonde. "I don't want much to be going on with, Master Prideaux."

At least she resembled other Altmer in one respect, Ashleigh thought. She'd eaten barely a sliver of the pie, which he immediately set about demolishing with alacrity as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"What sort of test d'you suppose he will have for you tomorrow, this Raminus Polus?" Reilonde asked eventually.

Ashleigh shrugged as he swallowed an unusually delectable morsel of venison. "Where I come from, testing is by challenge only. I'm not sure what practices are current here." He thought about it. "Considering the number of apprentices who seem to study here, I think it must not be the same. They would not get on so cordially and there would be more practice duels, else." He nibbled another small bite, his appetite mostly satiated now. "I hope it will be something I can do here on the grounds, however. I would not like to spend the intervening weeks until the ascendancy climbing a mountain to find a rare plant." He snorted, then coughed. "The thin air is apt not to agree with me, of late."

"Surely 'twill be no task for a sick man, in any case," said Reilonde. She seemed more curious than anything else.

"No more it will, Madam," Ashleigh agreed, with customary optimism. "But if I let myself do less because I am ill, I will accomplish nothing ever again. And what I _can _do is little enough." He eyed her as a thought struck him. "Whatever it is, do not attempt to interfere, please. No offense meant, but your intervention would make the test unfair."

"You think the Master-Wizard would know that?" asked Reilonde.

"It matters not whether he would or no," said Ashleigh. He smiled thinly. "I would."

The Altmer shook her head slowly. "And so you will not use every arrow in your quiver? 'Tis a very strange man you are, Master Mage."

"No doubt," said Ashleigh politely, and flame-cleaned the empty dish. The fork evaporated.

He set about what toilet he could accomplish with what was available, then shook off his leather shoes and climbed into bed. He fell asleep listening to Reilonde humming a soft little tune, like an elegy.

It was surely less than two hours later that he was awakened by a hard finger prodding his shoulder.

"Arise, Master Prideaux," said Reilonde's piercing voice. "'Tis time for your test."

"What, already?" he squeezed his eyes open, hoping this was a dream, or perhaps a joke (although it was very difficult to picture Reilonde playing any sort of prank).

"So says this Evoker," said Reilonde, gesturing. "He says the Master-Wizard sent him." Ashleigh flopped around until he attained one elbow, then found himself under the scrutiny of an Imperial in – what else? - blue robes. The man was looking at him as if he were something vomited onto a beach by a slaughterfish. Undoubtedly, there was some justice to this estimation. His joints had stiffened from the day's exertions already, leaving him sore all over.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to kill him, Madam?" said Ashleigh.

"Ah, fickle is the Breton race," said Reilonde. "'Twas you who told me not to interfere."

The Evoker snickered, just barely loud enough to be heard.

"All right, all right," said Ashleigh, and flung back the covers so that he could reluctantly unfold himself from the bed. The change from horizontal to vertical required a minute or so of stifled coughing, which the Evoker watched with a doubtful expression.

"Are you _sure _you want to test for Magician?" he said.

Ashleigh cleared a final, stubborn bit of something foul-tasting from his throat. No doubt awakening him at this hour was part of the test. He searched about rapidly for his shoes.

"Oh, quite," he assured the man. "Am I allowed to restore my magicka first?"

"Yes, but only once, and only now," said the man. "No potions may be used during the test."

"Yes, of course," said Ashleigh, keeping his swearing to himself. He extracted a vial from his satchel, downed it, and left the pouch on the bed beside his magically locked saddlebags. The pain in his limbs cleared somewhat as the magicka tingled through his body.

_Better. _Whether it would be enough... Well, that he would just have to see.

"Lead on," he said to the Evoker, who had not given his name. Reilonde stalked after them as they went down the stairs, out into the courtyard, back _up_ the thousand-times-godsdamned stairs to the top of the raised foundation, and into the tower.

The lighting inside was exactly the same as it had been during daylight. Ashleigh tried futilely to smooth down the static-infested hair that was escaping from its ribbon as he saw the Master-Wizard standing there, accompanied by Borissean, Gaspar Stegine, and a robed Altmer he did not know. The Altmer, who carried a gnarled staff in one hand, looked at him with much the same pitying disdain as the Evoker. The others were quite impassive.

"Good evening, Sirs," he said, composing himself seriously.

"Good evening, Master Ashleigh Prideaux," said Raminus Polus. "Are you prepared to face the test for confirmation in the rank of Magician?"

"I am," said Ashleigh.

"Excellent. I will administer the test. Wizards Borissean and Stegine are here both to offer first aid, should it become necessary, and to act as judges. Should they be unable to agree, mine will be the deciding vote."

Ashleigh nodded his understanding.

"I understand that advancement through the guild ranks is accomplished by dueling in High Rock," said Raminus Polus. "That is not the usual custom here in Cyrodiil. However, I understand from the Wizards that you may have urgent business elsewhere in the near future, so I am prepared to allow you to test by challenge with a mage of Magician rank. Otherwise you will be issued a quest of retrieval, which is a more traditional trial."

_Ha. One sprig of holly on a mountaintop, I'll wager. I was right._

"Then I choose to test by challenge, Master-Wizard," said Ashleigh.

"Very well," said Raminus Polus. If he was surprised, it did not show. "Your challenger is Magician Garalain, who wishes to test for the rank of Warlock." He nodded seriously to the Altmer, who nodded back with markedly more deference than he had shown Ashleigh. "If you can defeat him, you should be more than worthy of Magician rank. If he is able to defeat you, he will be allowed to test for the rank he desires. Are you ready to hear the conditions?"

"Yes, Master-Wizard," said Ashleigh Prideaux.

"Yes, Master-Wizard," said the Magician Garalain, but he was looking at Ashleigh. His tone was ever-so-slightly mocking. No one present appeared to take any notice of Reilonde, who stood back against the wall with her cloak pulled tight around her. Prideaux had almost forgotten her himself.

"Both combatants shall be searched for potions or enchanted items prior to the duel. Combat shall take place outside in the inner courtyard and shall include the flat areas only, not the walls or stairs. Combat shall continue until one mage surrenders or is unable to continue further. We don't want to see a death here this evening, gentlemen; that will be grounds for expulsion and for Imperial justice. Am I understood?"

Both mages gave their assent. Garalain took off an amulet and gave it to Borissean without being asked. He also handed over his staff. Ashleigh gave him a silver ring that had belonged to his father, though he doubted the enchantment would have made much difference to the duel. A quick, impersonal pat-down by Gaspar Stegine found nothing else on either candidate. From the corner of his eye, Prideaux saw Reilonde raise her head at that, staring at Prideaux with an eye like a chip of flint.

"Let us proceed outside," said Raminus Polus. "Combat will commence when I say _Begin. _When I say _Stop, _both of you are to stop at once, no matter what the circumstances. There will be no interference from any outside party. Am I understood?"

Ashleigh and Garalain agreed once again. Reilonde, clearly aware of what was meant by _outside party,_ nodded silently. Garalain looked at her with a slight, superior smile, as if to indicate that he thought there was no possibility that she _could _interfere. Ashleigh began to find that, notwithstanding he hardly knew the mer, he did not particularly like the Magician Garalain.

They all filed back out into the dark courtyard, now lit only by the arcane glow of purple fires in their round stone braziers. The others remained on the stairs as the two mages moved down onto the flat. Ashleigh surveyed the long, curving court thoughtfully. It was grassy and unpaved, but the ground seemed level. He hoped it would be, at least. His opponent would be much more accustomed to the feel of the terrain than was he. He coughed idly as he considered this.

"You're looking a bit pale, Master Prideaux," said Garalain. "Are you quite sure you're up to this?" His tone was unctuous, his tenor voice smooth as butter. Ashleigh, who had taken no offense to being asked essentially the same question by a person of the same race not three hours before, found himself suddenly quite angry.

"Certainly, _Magician _Garalain," Prideaux said with utmost courtesy, looking directly into the Altmer's arrogant golden eyes. His black hair was cut quite short above his long, pointed ears. There were no scars on his face. The skin was smooth as yellowed ivory.

"Begin," said Raminus Polus.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Garalain immediately loosed a ball of frost as large as a man's torso. It did not move particularly quickly, for a spell of its type. Ashleigh had plenty of time to watch it arrive. He stared into the white light with utter disdain.

The impact drove him back a step, the agony of sheer freezing cold all over the front of his body as the cloud of frost billowed up and down. The Altmer was already preparing another spell. Ashleigh stood with his arms at his sides, feeling the magicka revolve behind his eyes like sand in an ocean current. He could defend himself with such powerful spells that no jot of magicka would get through; but if he did, his magicka would be gone, and Garalain's would recover. No, that was not the way.

The Altmer cast a ball of fire slightly smaller than the ball of frost had been. Ashleigh grinned as he stared down the hellish light of the flame, feeling his lips peel back in a horrid smile.

Then it struck him. He felt his eyebrows singe, and the ends of his hair, and the hem of his robe momentarily caught fire before the rime of ice snuffed it. His vision cleared to show the Altmer, both hands held at chest height in front of him.

"Would you like to try another?" he asked the Magician, his voice harsh from the frost and the fire. "Perhaps some lightning - "

A ribbon of green light shot out from the Altmer's hands and anchored itself in Ashleigh's chest. He stumbled involuntarily closer as Garalain began to draw in the connection, and with it to draw the energy from Ashleigh's already-tired body.

_A fatigue drain. Well, that's mildly original, at least. _He was forced, reluctantly, to rate Garalain above a Bosmer bandit mage.

"You must be quite mad," said the Altmer, for Ashleigh's ears only. "It comes of all the inbreeding, I assume. I'll try and make this quick, so you can go back to your lady of the scars. Was she the only one who would have you, Master Prideaux? Or were you the only one who would have her? Or is she perhaps your sister?"

"Go on," said Ashleigh in a caressing whisper. "Wither me with your scorn, _Magician."_

He could barely raise his right arm, but he only need do it once. Garalain did not bother to stop him as he cast the only magicka fortification spell he knew.

Then the Altmer frowned as the ribbon began to stutter, and then his eyes widened as he felt the power flow from himself to Ashleigh as if into a bottomless pit. He was halfway through casting his shield spell when Ashleigh laid both hands on the collar of his robe and let the lightning go.

Just a little, of course. Without an enchanted talisman to compensate for the Altmeri weakness to shock, even a third the amount of magicka that was coursing through Ashleigh's pain-wracked body would have killed Garalain dead as a stone. The look on the Magician's face was of horrified realization, then abject fear, right up until the moment his eyes rolled up and he lost consciousness. Ashleigh held onto his jerking body for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, until he heard Raminus Polus say,

"Stop!"

He cut off the magic, as easy as damming a river with a teaspoon, and then he let go. Garalain dropped to the ground and lay twitching. Ashleigh wiped the death's-head grin from his face with an effort as he stumbled back, groping for the stone base of the nearest great brazier. It was cold under his hand and against his hip. Borissean came forward to kneel beside the fallen mer, whose robes and hair steamed faintly in the dim rose light.

Ashleigh healed himself easily, then restored his fatigue. It could not compensate for sleep deprivation, of course, but he was able to stand on his own. The pressure to do something – _anything –_ with the power became less strident as he spent the magicka. Reilonde came down the steps to stand next to him.

"'Tis a very devil you are, Ashleigh Prideaux," she said in his ear. Thrown off balance by her proximity, hot hand on his cold shoulder, he could not interpret the tone. She let go and stepped back before he could reply.

"He'll be fine," Borissean reported to Raminus Polus, who now stood beside him as he knelt next to Garalain. "He'll be out for a while, but in a couple of days he'll be good as new." He looked up at Ashleigh with no expression whatsoever. "I'd say he did all right, dueling someone who ought to be ranked at Wizard."

It was with some relief that Ashleigh felt the effect of his magicka fortification evaporate. He felt faintly embarrassed. Hopefully he was now sufficiently bloodless in appearance that he would not blush.

"He made a tactical error," said Gaspar Stegine, apparently disagreeing. "He knew Prideaux's birth sign. He should've known better than to set up a conduit for magicka between himself and one who could absorb the spell." He looked down at Garalain with one dark eyebrow raised. "Should've made Prideaux spend his magicka first, not tried to end it so quickly. He was arrogant."

Master-Wizard Polus listened to both of them without taking his eyes from Ashleigh.

"True but..." Borissean's eyes were disappointed as he glanced at Prideaux. "I'd have liked to see more respect shown him."

Ashleigh looked away. He had long prided himself on his ability to resist verbal provocation. He was not quite sure why that resolve had failed him. It surely was not the insult to himself, and it could hardly be the insult to a mer he hardly knew who did not, in any case, need any champion whatsoever.

"That's a point," said Stegine. "You ought to have stated your rank higher to start with, Prideaux, or you ought to have gone easier when you knew he wasn't up to your level."

"I beg pardon, Sir," said Ashleigh. "But I did believe myself to be nearest to Magician. I have had little experience with Cyrodilic Guild rankings." He met each senior mage's eyes in turn, sure of himself now. "And Magician Garalain received as much respect from me as he offered."

"That, I think, is true enough," said Raminus Polus seriously, speaking for the first time since he had halted the duel.

"Wizard is a leadership rank," said Borissean after a moment.

"Yes," said Gaspar Stegine. He shook his head very slightly as he looked at Ashleigh. "Bluntly, you'd have to demonstrate a bit more control – of your temper, certainly not of your magical abilities – before we could risk having you in charge of other mages."

"May Julianos strike me if I wish to be in charge of anyone, Sirs," said Prideaux, and shuddered slightly. "_Certainly _not other mages."

"So rank him at Warlock," said Gaspar to Borissean. "And let Garalain test again when he can walk straight."

"Agreed," said Borissean, nodding firmly.

"That's our judgment, Master-Wizard," said Gaspar Stegine, turning to Raminus Polus.

"Which I both accept and ratify," said Raminus Polus. "Ashleigh Prideaux, the Guild of Mages recognizes you at the rank of Warlock with all the duties, rights and privileges accruing to said rank. Do you understand and accept this ranking?"

"I understand and accept," Ashleigh said.

"Then you are dismissed." He looked at Ashleigh without anger, but certainly without any softening. "I trust you will not be making your stay at the University a long one."

"Not at all, Sir," said Ashleigh, with the bleak calm of utter exhaustion. "If I may be permitted to rest here tonight, I will gladly depart on the morrow."

"Very well," said Raminus Polus. "Good night, Warlock Prideaux." He said it quite politely, but he turned on his heel afterward and went to confer with Gaspar Stegine. Borissean offered Ashleigh his ring back, then turned and went to talk with the others regarding where the unconscious Garalain would be spending the night.

_I suppose I have earned such a dismissal, _Ashleigh thought, and turned to go back to the Mage Quarters. He found Reilonde's hard fingers under his elbow when he stumbled. The cough seemed to leave him lightheaded all of a sudden.

"You'll be better for a night's sleep, I'm thinking," she said.

"I'd be better for a few less flights of stairs," said Ashleigh under his breath. He heard Reilonde's snort.

"'Tis quite possible the exercise does you good. Come along there, Master Warlock." She tugged him through the door and up the staircase. He paused on the top landing, leaning against the wall to get his breath back. She let him go. He found, to his surprise, that he was sorry. It had been a long time since there had been someone he could lean on.

_No. Never think it. Only pain lies that way, and you have pain enough, and so has she._

"So you're still speaking to me, are you?" he said, when he could. "It's clear I've not made any new friends this evening."

"Ah, but y'see, I have bigger ears than Master-Wizard Raminus Polus," said Reilonde. "I heard what the whoreson fetcher said."

Ashleigh looked into one hard, dark slit of an eye and one hard, white slit of a mouth.

"I would not have treated him so gently, had he spoken so to me," said Reilonde.

Prideaux was reminded of that moment in the Bloated Float when he had found her dagger at his throat.

_Perhaps she has learned, in certain circumstances, to be contained. But Madam Reilonde is not of an easy temper._

"Ah, bloodthirsty is the Altmer race," said Prideaux, trying to imitate the cadence of Reilonde's voice from earlier in the evening.

"And miserable the Breton acting talent. Come along with you, then." She had that maiden-aunt tone of voice again. Ashleigh allowed himself to be meekly herded into the dim upstairs room and back into bed.

He fell heavily asleep before he had time to do more than wonder where exactly Reilonde was going to sleep...

...Nor did he ever find out. Once again, it was Reilonde who woke him.

"Wake up, Master Warlock," said the strident voice in his ear. "Else we will be stretching the definition of _morning _in reference to our departure."

"Warlock?" He stared blearily up at the scarred face of the Altmer, who stared back with pursed lips. Waking seemed harder this morning than last night, when -

"Oh, that _did_ happen," he said, sitting up slowly as memory came surging back. "I rather hoped it was a dream."

"Nay," said Reilonde. "Up you get."

"Mmph." Ashleigh commenced with the morning coughing fit as he fumbled for his comb. A quick draught of restorative helped his sore muscles and made him feel a little more alert, but he still thought longingly of tea. There had been a time when he could expect it every morning, fresh and piping hot, in a ceramic tea pot on a tray beside a large, soft bed. With toast, and quite possibly a couple of pats of butter and a small jug of cream...

No point in dwelling on the past. Anyway, toast would chafe his perpetually sore throat, he was quite certain. Ashleigh got himself together as quickly as he could, made up the bed neatly, and shouldered his various burdens before starting carefully down the stairs. The Mage Quarters were quite empty. Apparently the apprentices had long since risen and gone about their business.

The sun seemed blinding when he went out the door. He moved to one side and stood blinking for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. From the curious looks a couple of passing mages gave him, news of last night's test had spread already. Well, at least he hadn't chosen someone with a wide circle of friends for his little loss of temper. He couldn't imagine there were many people who would be friends with Garalain. All the same, it was probably just as well that he was leaving. There would be others of similar rank who wanted to test themselves against a newcomer, and he gathered that bloodshed would not endear him to the Guild in general and Master-Wizard Raminus Polus in particular.

With that thought, he gritted his teeth and started up the stairs to the foundation of the Archmage's tower. He shoved open the iron gate with an effort and was out into the outer court. He paused at the top of the steps to look around. A couple of Legion battlemages stood, seemingly idle, in the shadow of the wall. They gave him a disinterested look and continued with a quiet discussion they seemed to be having. One of them kept glancing off to Ashleigh's left.

He looked that way as he walked down the stairs. Juggles-One-Dozen stood leaning against the foundation, wearing more or less serviceable traveling leathers. The sleeveless tunic and leggings were of the style that is made in two panels, front and back, and connected via laces up the sides and at the shoulders. They were not pulled tight. On a buxom female who was covered with fur, the effect would have been mildly titillating. On a slim and athletic Argonian male, it gave quite a different impression (to Ashleigh, at least). Juggles was nearly the same color as the leather, and rougher in texture, and the sagging neckline at the front of the tunic revealed the tops of a pair of flat and muscular pectorals. A belt was slung around his narrow hips at a jaunty angle.

Ashleigh couldn't help checking the horns. They were beribboned again, this time with very thin strips of rawhide. Green glass beads were knotted in at the ends, bringing out the color of the Argonian's eyes. Prideaux wondered abstractly if this meant that Juggles was accurately aware of his own eye color.

"Good morning, Juggles," Ashleigh said.

"Good morning, Ashleigh Prideaux," said the Argonian. "And Madam Reilonde." He nodded politely to the Altmer. She nodded back. "You have something for this one?"

"Yes, of course," said Ashleigh. He extracted the vial from his robe and handed it over. Juggles tucked it demurely into a belt pouch.

"Excellent. Now, where shall we be going, Sir?"

"To the stables," said Ashleigh. "Which are on the other side of town. We'll camp wherever we can tonight, and decide what to do after that. I do not feel led in any particular direction at the moment."

He couldn't help thinking, as they walked across the drafty bridge from the University to the City, that the three of them looked like the worse sort of joke.

_A Breton, an Altmer and an Argonian walked into a bar..._


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: One of those circumstances which negatively affect my update speed has come up, to whit: like one in ten of my fellow Americans at the moment, I am now laid off and looking for work. This process tends to sap my motivation for most things. Chapters will be here when they get here._

_Did anyone else notice how many guilds end up being led by Argonians? This strikes me as funny when the standard race description of Argonians is "they make good thieves and assassins. And, um, pretty good mages, too." I'd like to think of it as a triumph of personal merit over prejudice, except that this is a fantasy video game we're talking about, where racial stereotyping is somehow always correct. _

Chapter 10

Juggles turned out not to have a horse.

"But you could not expect this one to keep that horrid nag of Garander's," said the Argonian reasonably.

"No, no," said Ashleigh. He waved a hand limply. It had been a very long walk. "But what shall we do now? I don't suppose you know how to ride pillion, Ma'am?" He could not say he relished the idea, exactly, but he couldn't ask Reilonde to ride behind him either. One side of the Altmer's thin mouth was quirked upward in recognition of this dilemma as she stood leaning against her horse, which had turned out to be a long-legged strawberry roan gelding.

Pert, with his chestnut nose in a bucket of oats, was only mildly interested in Ashleigh's return.

"Oh, certainly," said Juggles-One-Dozen, who did not seem tired in the least. He licked a finger claw and ran it back over the dull scales of his skull. "But this one had much rather run beside the horse. It is not dignified, but we are not going far or fast today, are we?"

"Not if I can help it," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "Just far enough that we can camp without paying anyone."

"Ah, then not far at all," said Juggles. "Once we are on the other shore you may choose where you like, although we will not be the only ones to have had that idea."

"With what lodging costs in the City, 'tis no surprise," said Reilonde.

"This one suggests you try the ruins of Vilverin. They provide some shelter on the surface, and this one is quite sure there are no bandits there."

Ashleigh looked at Juggles-One-Dozen, who grinned back in a friendly way.

"Will there be any _parts _of bandits there?" asked Ashleigh.

"Not where you can see them," said Juggles coyly.

"Right," Ashleigh sighed. "Vilverin, then. Does that meet with your approval, Madam Reilonde?"

"Fine by me," said Reilonde.

"Then off we go."

Vilverin turned out to be separated from the City by a narrow arm of Lake Rumare. It took longer to find a safe ford than it did to find the actual ruin, whose tall white columns were visible at some distance. Ashleigh offered to make two trips in order to carry Juggles-One-Dozen across.

"No, no," said the Argonian. "This one possesses not the traditional Khajiiti repugnance for water, thank the gods. She will walk."

"Indeed?" said Ashleigh, keeping a straight face without much effort (this being one of the skills without which a minor member of the nobility is unlikely to survive in High Rock). "I suppose you're quite a good swimmer, in fact?"

"Odd as it may seem, yes." The Argonian was in process of removing his shoes and tying them around his neck. "A peculiar circumstance has endowed this one with an ability to breathe water, in fact. But that is a long story."

"I imagine so," said Ashleigh, who was quite curious as to how exactly the Argonian believed this to have come about.

"In any case, this one will probably find a slaughterfish for her supper. They are quite tasty if one grills them properly." With which words, Juggles turned and ran gracefully into the shallow water and sped off across the shallows, barely splashing. A long_ V_ of ripples spread out behind him.

"'Tis true what they say of those blessed by the Madgod," said Reilonde, when the Argonian was out of earshot. To Ashleigh's utter lack of surprise, she seemed an experienced horsewoman. "There is naught can shake such a conviction. Logic least of all."

"He seems very consistent so far," said Ashleigh. He urged Pert out into the clear, shallow water. The Chestnut snorted at the chill, but made no serious attempt to demur. The strawberry roan paced out beside him quite willingly. "I suppose that is a good thing."

"I like him," said the Altmer firmly. Ashleigh looked at her with raised eyebrows, startled by this admission.

"Do you really?" he said.

"Certain sure. He – or she - is a pleasant person. I would not care to meet him on a dark night in an alley. Particularly an he possesses the ability to see in the dark in addition to breathing under water. Both are areas where my own folk are notably deficient."

"Mine, too," said Ashleigh. "In addition to those deficiencies peculiar to myself, that is."

"Do not be feeling too sorry for yourself, Ashleigh Prideaux," said Reilonde. She added with grim certainty, "Nothing is ever so bad it cannot get worse."

"Truer words were never spoken," said Ashleigh. He revolved possibilities in his mind.

"Perhaps I can get work in Bravil," he mused aloud. "The air is insalubrious, but Kud-Ei seemed somewhat sympathetic. Not in Skingrad. I couldn't stand that woman. There might be contract work in Anvil, though I am probably not enough of a zealot against necromancy for Carahil to encourage me to stay. It's not considered quite so awful in High Rock, you know."

"I should keep that to myself around the Guild mages, if I were you," said Reilonde. "But aye. 'Tis practiced in Vvardenfell as part of the Dunmer religion. Though they are firmly against freelance practitioners, I grant you."

"I suppose that's not surprising," said Ashleigh. "I might enjoy working with Teekeeus in Chorrol, but I understand work is scarce there at the moment. Bruma..." He thought of the mountains and the cold and shuddered, which caused him to cough again. "No, I think not. Leyawiin is even damper than Bravil, although they are certainly hospitable people."

"Have y'tried Cheydinhal yet?" asked Reilonde. "I passed through there once. 'Tis a bit of a peculiar town, but certainly not a poor climate. I have heard that the new guild head is quite a reasonable lady. Another Argonian, though the name escapes my memory."

"It's the only Guild city in Cyrodiil I haven't visited," said Ashleigh. "So I might as well go there and have the complete set, as it were. I expect I would find it difficult to obtain Guild work in the Imperial City now."

"Aye," said Reilonde, quite pointedly omitting to remind him whose fault this was. "But 'tis a long ride to Cheydinhal, Master Mage. This ascendancy may take place before you get there."

"Quite frankly, I hope it does," said Ashleigh. "Whatever happens, it will not be improved by proximity to a large number of innocent bystanders."

They reached the other shore and the horses walked out onto the pebbly brown beach. A chilly wind was blowing, funneled between the nearby hills and the slopes of the base of the City. It teased strands of Ashleigh's thin hair across his face.

Juggles-One-Dozen stood waiting in the shade of a large pillar. Broken arches led up to a circle of standing columns that crowned a small hill. Ashleigh did not forebear to notice the square door, once white, now leprous with age. It was surrounded by a stone frame and seemed to lead down into the earth.

"Where does that go?" he asked the Argonian.

"Into a ruined city underground," said Juggles. "Full of bandits and ghosts and restless dead. But have no worries, Ashleigh Prideaux! There is nothing there now to trouble a soul." He winked. Ashleigh chose not to see this.

"Then I'll be about building a fire," he said. "These bandits that aren't here now, did they leave a pit behind? I'm sure we won't want to camp on top of that hill." _Or on top of that door._

"Indeed they did. Follow this one." The Argonian led off at a gait that could only be called a scamper – cheerful, noisy, and quite opposite to the silence with which he had descended the wall of the Arcane University. Ashleigh nudged Pert in that direction. The horse left off nibbling a strand of lavender with a reluctant sniff.

They found a small hollow around a shoulder of the hill. Not only was there a fire pit, there was a table, a stool, and a couple of small tents. The area was perfectly clean and empty otherwise, as if someone had just left those things behind for campers. A small quantity of wood was neatly stacked nearby. Ashleigh would have looked upon the whole arrangement with deep suspicion had he not been quite sure he knew how it had come to be there.

He dismounted, tied Pert to a small stake, and left him cropping grass beside the strawberry roan, whom he heard Reilonde call Nix. By the time he had accomplished this, Juggles had piled a few pieces of wood and some kindling twigs in the firepit. Ashleigh lit it with a carefully controlled burst of flame. The heat was grateful. He held out his hands to it for a moment as he thought.

"Didn't bring any food, did you," said Reilonde. It was evidently not a question.

Ashleigh opened his mouth to correct her, then shut it. He _hadn't _thought to collect up anything before they'd left the University. He'd been in too much of a hurry to be gone. Besides, when he camped outside he didn't usually eat. It was never more than one night between towns, and a salvaged lump of bread would do him for that – as long as he had his potion satchel.

"Dear me," he said. "I am _so _sorry."

"Never you mind," said Reilonde, with a very Altmeri smugness. She hauled her saddlebags over beside the fire and began unpacking things. "It occurred to me that you'd probably eat like a bird, left to yourself. 'Twill perhaps do for a skinny mage but not, I assure you, for two such robust ladies as Juggles and I."

"Conserve your provisions, Dear," advised Juggles, and Ashleigh looked at him in startlement. Reilonde showed no signs of being about to behead the Argonian, to his further surprise. "This one will catch a fish for us, yes."

"You are too kind," said Reilonde. "If you do, I will scale it for you."

"A very bargain." The Argonian grinned at her and turned to pad back toward the water, dropping his shoes and belt beside the fire as he went.

"You're going to let him call you _dear?"_ Ashleigh inquired dryly, when he was gone.

"Oh, 'tis not a liberty I would permit a man," said Reilonde. "But if Juggles wants to be treated as a female, then so I shall treat her. Besides, I am certainly twice or thrice her age, which she knows. 'Tis a little joke, no more."

"Twice or - ?" Ashleigh said. He looked again at Reilonde's face. He could trace no lines or wrinkles, but the lattice of scars would have made that difficult. There were no crow's feet beside her empty right eye socket. That meant little. High elves often did age much more slowly than humans, even Bretons with the most obvious elven blood (one of his cousins had had ears that were almost, not quite, pointed).

"Do not ask me, for I will not tell you," said Reilonde sharply. She poked the fire with a stick. "Anyway, 'tis not polite to ask a lady's age. Is it?"

"No more it is," Ashleigh said. "I beg your pardon, Madam." He added after a moment, "I myself am thirty-two years old, if you were wondering."

"I guessed," said the elf shortly.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: In Oblivion you can't cast a cure paralyzation spell while paralyzed. You CAN swallow a potion that cures it, though. I've swapped these two because it makes more sense in a narrative context._

Chapter 11

Ashleigh fell asleep long before either of the others. He laid out his bedroll in between the two tents. The concept of a canvas roof that close to his head made him feel claustrophobic, for some reason. His plan was to plead chivalry if anyone asked about it, but in the event they were too busy chatting across the fire to notice. He was not sure why he felt a sense of ill-usage as he was falling asleep.

He was awakened by a faint prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He tried to blink his eyes open, only to realize that he could not move them. Rapid assessment confirmed that he couldn't move any other part of his body, either.

_Paralyzed. Someone has just paralyzed me. _He could hear them breathing softly now, and someone was wrapping his own blanket around him, presumably preparatory to dragging him off toward a horse. It wasn't Juggles. The cold hands when they brushed his neck were fleshy, not scaly. And it certainly wasn't Reilonde, who did not stink like old blood and in any case, probably would not stoop to paralyzing someone she intended to kill.

Or kidnap. He was now draped over someone's shoulder (with quite frightening ease; whoever it was must be incredibly strong for the size of their bony frame) and being carried stealthily off. Or perhaps they just wanted to get him far enough from camp that the sudden smell of his blood wouldn't wake Juggles-One-Dozen.

He wondered if the unknown kidnapper knew he was awake, or if they were unaware he was a mage, or if they had simply forgotten a vitally important point.

There is exactly one spell which a mage can cast while paralyzed.

The tingling surge of magicka as he cast his cure spell alerted his assailant, of course, but the kidnapper had been so foolish as to leave Ashleigh's hands hanging down his back. Thus, while he was in process of sorting out the weapon with the paralytic enchantment on it, Ashleigh set him on fire.

He was immediate flung through the air away from his putative kidnapper. He had time to be surprised by the distance he traveled, the view of stars overhead traveling rapidly past. An athlete or a martial artist might have rolled easily to his feet upon impact with little harm done. Ashleigh was neither of these, so he hit the ground hard instead. His head bounced off the dirt with an impact that left stars in his eyes and ringing in his ears, and then he rolled a couple of times and came to rest against the cold stone wall of Vilverin.

For a while he just lay there, trying to sort out which way was up and whether or not he was going to be able to avoid throwing up. Gradually he became aware of a roaring, crackling sound. There ought to have been a scream, he thought muzzily. He _had _set a man on fire, hadn't he?

Someone _did _scream, then, but the sound ended in a bubbly gurgle that Ashleigh had heard once before. It had sort of a throat-cut-from-ear-to-ear sound to it, he thought critically. No, that was definitely not the sound of someone burning to death...

There was a much less dramatic grunt, and a thud.

"Serves ye right, y'godsdamn fetcher," said Reilonde's voice, her accent much sharper than he remembered.

The crackling died down. Ashleigh's magicka was low now, but he managed to move one hand enough to cast a healing spell. The blue spiral of light shot up past his eyes, and his head cleared at once. He coughed as he levered himself upright against the wall.

A pile of ash was still settling in the midst of a small circle of scorched grass near the tents, which were somewhat further away than he'd expected. He could see Reilonde standing beside the banked fire, uncloaked and with Keening in her hand. She still wore the Dwemer gauntlet - must, he thought, have gone to sleep with it on. The crystal blade of the dagger seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. The light shone even through the blood that smothered most of its length. It struck a red spark from the Altmer's one eye. She looked a creature of dire magnificence, like an avatar Meridia might send when she really _wanted _something done about the undead problem...

_I believe I may have a concussion, _he decided hastily_. Best get a potion down me as soon as possible._

"Is everyone all right?" Ashleigh said. He had the idea that just stumbling into the light of the coals might be a bad idea.

"Ashleigh?" said Reilonde. She came striding toward him, squinting as she searched the darkness. "There y'are. Gods, man, but he threw you hard!" She turned and spat in the direction of the ash pile. "But then, vampires are strong, aye? Are you all right yourself?"

"As right as I've been, anyway," said Ashleigh dryly. "I trust they did not get my satchel."

"Nay, 'twas not that they were after," said the Altmer. "Just your sweet self, Master Mage." She said it without apparent awareness that she'd used his first name alone a moment before. Ashleigh tried not to refine too much upon this as he convinced his legs to carry him over toward where he'd left his bags. They were still there.

"Juggles-One-Dozen?" he asked. He dug out a potion bottle and downed it. Magicka coursed out to his fingertips. He coughed for a few seconds after he'd healed himself again.

"Juggles ran out after one of them," said Reilonde, when he had finished. "There were four besides the one you burnt. I got one and Juggles got two."

"I heard two of those, I think," said Ashleigh.

"Aye. The first one died without a sound," Reilonde said. "Juggles is not a safe person to attack while she sleeps, I gather."

Now that he had taken care of his one urgent need, it occurred to him to look around. There was a bloody patch in the bare earth by one of the tents, and a half-scattered ash pile atop it, just starting to soak up the liquid. Another such pile lay near the fire pit. He looked at it thoughtfully as he got up from his knees. "They were _all _vampires."

"So they were," said Reilonde. She dabbed irritably at her neck with a rag, and Ashleigh noticed abruptly the two ragged marks there. They were not obvious in the dark. "One of 'em woke me up in process of biting me."

"How much did he take?" Ashleigh asked.

The Altmer shrugged. "Not enough. And _I_ cannot catch the porphyry, y'know. But you could heal this, and welcome."

"With a will," said Ashleigh, and reached out. A puff of blue magicka erased the markings. Reilonde nodded curt thanks and turned to stir up the fire.

Ashleigh moved closer to the warmth, coughing obviously as he tried to surreptitiously watch the Altmer. She seemed sallow as usual, not noticeably paler. Perhaps she really hadn't lost much blood. It was a good thing he hadn't been bitten himself, since _he _could quite easily catch porphyric hemophilia. At least, he didn't _think _he had, he amended silently. There was no point in feeling for fang marks now. He'd healed himself twice already. Ashleigh sighed and cast a quick cure spell, just in case.

That was one of the fortunate things about the porphyry: if you caught it inside of three days from infection, it was quite curable. People who did become vampires generally did so either because they chose to, or because they were under the power of a vampire and unable to get to a cure in time.

"I cannot imagine that vampire attacks are common so near to the City," Ashleigh murmured.

"No more they are," said Reilonde. "They're far more common _inside _the Imperial City, Master Mage."

Ashleigh raised his eyebrows. "You don't say."

"Aye, but I do," said the Altmer. "There are rumors that the sewers under the Arena crawl with the bloodsuckers, and it takes a great population of people to support so many – even if they _can _drink what runs down from the Bloodworks. Naught that happened after the Fall of Dagon has changed that, for they are not his children."

"You mean because they're associated with Molag Bal," said Ashleigh.

"Or Clavicus Vile, but 'tis far more ordinary to encounter that sort in Vvardenfell," said Reilonde. "And these were no such. I would be able to tell the difference."

"I wonder if they did come from the City," Ashleigh said. "Nothing attacked us until I tried to leave, I notice..."

"Hallo the fire!" said a voice from out in the dark. It was quite recognizable.

"Hello, Juggles," said Ashleigh, turning from the fire. "Are you all right?"

"This one could profit by your healing services," said Juggles, and stepped out into the light, hauling a limp body over one shoulder. "But only so that she does not ruin her looks. Scars look abominably in fur, you comprehend." There was a cut along one side of his muzzle, the scales pulled out of alignment, and another shallow one across the belly of his leather tunic. "But first things first. Speak to this thing you must, before it dies. Much blood it has lost already." He laid down his burden and drew a dagger in almost the same movement, holding to the throat of -

Ashleigh stared into a pair of eyes as red as crimson. He felt its bid for control of his mind almost immediately.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said, breaking eye contact abruptly. "My own brother is better at that than you are, and he is mortal. Why did you try to carry me away?"

The vampire bared his teeth, yellow fangs in his gaunt white face. This one evidently had not fed. The bones seemed ready to stab through his tight skin. Neat little wounds, straight and deep, crisscrossed his chest and belly. Below them, his white flesh and his ragged clothes were soaked with dark blood.

"Those were our orders," he said, in a hissing parody of a voice.

"Where were you going?" he demanded.

"I am dying," said the vampire. "There is no reason for me to tell you."

"I can heal you," said Ashleigh.

"I need blood," returned the creature at once.

Ashleigh shook his head. "That you will not have. I will heal you, and you can go and try to find yourself an easier meal. That is my only offer."

The vampire turned his head to glare at Juggles-One-Dozen, who was studiously avoiding his eyes. The dagger at his throat did not waver, however.

"We were to take you to our Master," it said finally. "He lives in Fort Nikel."

"And he is also a vampire, this Master of yours? What is his name?"

"Heal me," demanded the vampire.

"Answer me first," said Ashleigh.

The vampire rolled his red eyes. "Would I call a mortal Master? Yes. He is one of us. We who are his offspring know no other name for him."

Ashleigh reached out a hand, calling up the magicka. Reilonde seized his shoulder.

"I would not," she said.

"My word is my bond, Madam," said Ashleigh, and cast the spell. The vampire's wounds crept closed. Juggles-One-Dozen withdrew the knife slowly, but did not sheathe it. The undead crept backward out of reach, then got to his feet. His movements were stiff but purposeful, like a spider's. He looked from one to the other of them. Ashleigh had no trouble guessing what was in his mind.

"You came with four others," Ashleigh said. "And we were asleep. Now we're awake, and you are alone. I would run, were I you."

The vampire opened its mouth, perhaps to make a sharp retort, and then dissolved into ash as a throwing knife _squelched _into its eye socket.

Ashleigh turned to glare at Juggles-One-Dozen. He grinned back, unrepentant despite his wounds.

"You did not give _my _word, Ashleigh Prideaux," said the Argonian.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N WITH DARK BROTHERHOOD SPOILERS: Those wondering why Teinaava is alive may wish to go back and read Tales From Cyrodiil: A Dark Beginning. The short version is that I rewrote the canon ending of the DB quest line in that story. Honestly, I don't know how any fanfic writer can resist doing so. They're the friendliest bunch of guildmates you can have, the quests are clever, the plot is interesting, and then along comes the horrid disappointing ending – and as consolation, you get to go talk to a statue once a week and recruit a couple of nameless, disposable followers. It's no wonder so many Oblivion fics are about the DB characters and/or quests.  
_

Chapter 12

"That was not well done," said Ashleigh. He healed the Argonian anyway. He had said he would.

"The Hell it wasn't," said Reilonde.

"Alas, you are right," said Juggles, face suddenly solemn. The scales of his wounds crept back together, the dried blood flaking away. "If only this foolish female had let the creature escape to slay some more helpless person by slowly draining away all their blood! No doubt this one shall not sleep a wink the rest of the night."

"'Tis an excellent point," said Reilonde to Ashleigh. "Besides, now his Master still believes you are alone. I'd just as soon he did _not _send ten next time, thanks."

Ashleigh opened his mouth to reply sharply. Then he shut it. Had he been alone, he would be in process of being hauled off to some dank fort even now. The vampires' tactics had not been at fault. They would have worked perfectly had they run up against just Ashleigh, or Ashleigh and two ordinary people such as one might hire at, say, the Fighters' Guild.

"Julianos' thumbs," he swore. "_I_ am going back to bed. You two may do as you like." He stalked over to retrieve his discarded blanket, shook the ash off it, and went back to lie down again between the two tents.

Before he drifted off again into exhausted slumber he heard Reilonde say,

"D'you suppose that will be all of them for tonight, Juggles?"

"Best take no chances, Dear," said Juggles. "I will take first watch."

"Thank ye kindly," said Reilonde. "Wake me in an hour."

Ashleigh woke feeling slightly feverish and strangely neglected. It was almost full daylight, just a hint of rosy dawn still clinging around the distant horizon as he sat up. He'd half-expected to be awakened by Reilonde's voice. It seemed a pattern in his recent experience. But no, she was standing beside the remains of the fire, nibbling a portion of leftover fish. Ashleigh got his morning coughing fit over with as quietly as possible, downed another potion, and checked his supply of vials. He still had a number left, but it would be a good idea to start looking for ingredients as he went.

He felt slightly ashamed of his behavior now that it was morning. He ought to have offered to share the watch with the others, particularly after they had so willingly shared a hazard meant entirely for him.

"I say," he said to Reilonde. "About last night, I do apologize - "

She waved a hand dismissively, shooting him an amused glance. "Forget it, Warlock. I've a temper myself. And anyway, you were not fit to stand the watch with us. Looks as though you've a touch of fever this morning."

"Oh, pay it no mind, Madam," he said glumly. "I assure you I will. Where is Juggles?"

"I believe she has gone off to see to her toilette," said Reilonde. "Rather a significant disarrangement of the ribbons occurred yesterday, I gather." Reilonde's own hair was now very neatly braided again, and looking slightly damp. Ashleigh eyed the no-doubt-chilly water of the lake and weighed that against his desire to be clean. Perhaps it would bring the fever down.

"I think I will take a small dip myself," he said. He looked around. "If you would be so kind as to stay here, I believe that pillar over there will screen me quite adequately."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Reilonde asked.

Ashleigh blinked rapidly, reminded himself what she was actually asking, and said,

"Quite. I assure you I will not hesitate to call for help."

The water was fully as cold as he had expected. He dried himself as best he could with the cleaner side of the blanket, washed it, and flame-dried it. His mother had made it as a travel-blanket originally – his brother Meredith had one just like it, unless he'd lost it in a dice game - and the enchantment would prevent it from burning. He was just pulling his robe over his head when a baritone voice said,

"Good morning!"

He pulled it all the way down, restoring his vision, and found himself face-to-face with Juggles-One-Dozen. The Argonian was fully clean and clothed, his beaded rawhide straps were tied into neat bows on his horns, and he'd even stitched up the hole in his laced leather tunic.

"Good morning, Miss," Ashleigh said.

"Don't worry, this one did not look," Juggles assured him. "She would not look at a naked Breton in any case, although she assures you she is not a racist person."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Ashleigh, with complete honesty. He reached for his comb and began sorting out his hair.

"So where shall we go today?" asked the Argonian. He inspected his sharp nails.

Ashleigh tugged carefully at a stubborn knot. "I think we will go to Fort Nikel. Do you know where that is?"

"This one has been there, yes." The corners of the Argonian's mouth folded down momentarily, as if he were suppressing a smirk.

"Oh, good," said Ashleigh. "So everything inside is dead, then?"

"This one is sure she has no idea what you mean," said Juggles, showing a sly peep of teeth. "And anyway, this one was there a long time ago, and there were no vampires. It appears they have moved in since then."

"I wonder just _how _recently?" Ashleigh said thoughtfully.

"Next time they attempt to kidnap you, perhaps you could let this one do the asking of questions," said Juggles. "She can be very persuasive."

"I am sure," said Ashleigh. "And, while I would not wish to offend you, I can't say that I find letting you torture someone for me to be less reprehensible than doing it myself, however."

"Suit yourself," said the Argonian. He went to look thoughtfully at his reflection in the chilly water, then adjusted the hang of his tunic. He sighed. "This one bought a new set of clothes not two days ago and already it is quite ruined. Alas, the life of a rogue is hard for a vain woman, Ashleigh Prideaux."

"I... wouldn't know," Ashleigh said carefully.

"One would wish to be so indifferent to such things as is the Nerevarine, yes? But then, she is a magnificent person regardless of garb."

Ashleigh concealed a sigh of his own. "Indeed she is."

"Ah, but do not despair, my friend," Juggles advised him. "You never know what may happen. For example, I did not at all expect to be attacked by an assassin today."

"_What_?" said Ashleigh, and then threw up a shield spell as Juggles-One-Dozen hurled himself to one side. Another Argonian faded into view, crouching where he had been. He wore black armor that fit him very closely from neck to toes, he was somewhat smaller and slimmer than Juggles, and he held a dagger in one hand. A pale sheen rippled over the blade.

Juggles rolled gracefully to his feet. The stranger took two lightning-quick steps and slashed at his belly. Juggles eluded him easily and attempted to sweep his feet out from under him. The two of them vanished in a blur of indecipherable movement.

"Juggles?" said Ashleigh. "I can't hit him without hitting you."

"Then do not try, please," said Juggles. Suddenly he stood facing the stranger across a spit of sand, each of them now armed, neither of them breathing hard. "This one believes she has met this handsome man before." He grinned at the stranger, who looked back with a cold and focused expression. "You should see if anyone is troubling Reilonde."

"Yes, of course," said Ashleigh. He scooped up his potion satchel and ran for the camp site, coughing all the way.

---

"Whomever you brought with you, I hope you were not close," said the traitor, and giggled (even as deep as his voice was, there could be no other word for the sound).

Teinaava shook his head without taking his eyes from the other Argonian.

"This is not contract business," he said. "It is between Shadowscale. You must know this, Vannerjei."

As a matter of fact, he had not come alone, but there was no reason to let the traitor know that.

"That is not this one's name," said the one that the sickly Breton had called Juggles. "Nor was it ever. She was deceived by evil men."

Teinaava took another swipe at the other man, who eluded it easily for someone of his size, even on the shifting sand and gravel of the beach. He recognized quite coolly that Vannerjei was stronger than he was, and had more reach. Teinaava, on the other hand, had served the same hard master from birth until one year previously, while the traitor had slain a brother Shadowscale and run away when he was only seventeen. Teinaava had even met him once or twice, before his disastrous test of proving took him into the Shivering Isles. His command of Cyrodilic had been accentless and perfect then, as Teinaava's was now.

"We were willing to believe in your madness, you know," said Teinaava. "It is why we let you live for so long." Vannerjei tried for a grapple. Teinaava eluded him, this time managing to scrape the knife across his ribcage in passing. He ducked under the other man's sweeping arm and achieved a measure of distance again. Vannerjei turned to follow, looking bemused rather than afraid. But then, Teinaava did not believe the man actually thought he was a Khajiit. He probably knew how little effect the poison on the blade would have on him.

"If you had not killed Linderion, the Brotherhood might have let you go on as a contractor," said Teinaava. "We remember our own."

"Ah, but that is a lie, my Argonian friend," said Vannerjei. "Linderion broke his agreement with this one. Bandits and cutthroats and undeads, these he promised her. Instead, he sent this one after the reborn Nerevar. The very Nerevarine, no less!" He waved an admonitory finger. Teinaava was not so foolish as to assume this meant his guard was down, which was why he was not gutted by Vannerjei's sudden lunge. The traitor parried Teinaava's answering stab easily, and for an instant he grinned at him from inches away. "Ah, very good. This one thought she had you there. - This one knows that Linderion sent her to die, because this one questioned him quite closely. Not all assassins are so inured to discomfort as you are, pupil of the great Lucien LaChance. Is it true that you killed him, by the way?"

"You're saying the Nerevarine is in Cyrodiil," said Teinaava, ignoring the question. Very few assassins knew the full truth of Lucien's death. Exactly six, in fact: _Ocheeva, Gogron, little Vilindriel, Vicente Valtieri, Mraaj-Dar, and myself._

He disengaged easily.

"Did you not know?" said Vannerjei. "Ah, but this one forgets how tight-lipped everybody is supposed to be in the Brotherhood." He clucked his tongue, one hand on his hip as he pointed at Teinaava with the dagger. "You should be careful. They have run out of volunteers, even in this year of high recruitment. Soon they will be looking for the best of those who follow orders. And that will be you, the mighty Teinaava." He batted aside a spirited attempt to disembowel him.

Teinaava stood back for a moment, momentarily startled at the pain in his knife arm. He had not expected Vannerjei to be that strong. But then, he had not really believed him to be mad, either. Now he was experiencing a pang of doubt.

"You might be lying," said Teinaava. "And if you are not, it still may not be true."

"Cautious, cautious," said Vannerjei, suddenly serious. "That is appropriate. But all the care in the world will not save you if once you cross her path. You will think her quite ordinary when first you see her. You will underestimate her. And you will fall. When they give you the contract, and they tell you nothing more than that your target is a one-eyed Altmer named Reilonde, then beware."

Teinaava stared at the traitor. "Why would you tell me this? Do you really think I'd spare your life?"

Vannerjei giggled again. "You are a better Shadowscale than this one. That is not in question. But you cannot kill one whom the Madgod guards."

Teinaava threw the knife. He gave no warning, not the slightest tensing of a muscle.

No part of Vannerjei moved except his empty left hand. He caught it.

"No, no," said Vannerjei, grinning again. "Juggles-One-Dozen is saved for no pleasant fate, she is sure of it. Do not those perish awfully whom the Madgod loves? But she will not die today, Brother Teinaava." He flipped the knife into the sand at Teinaava's feet. Teinaava, conditioned by a lifetime of harrowing experiences, did not twitch. "Go home to your Sanctuary. Say what I have said to your Speaker, if you trust her – it is Arquen now, is it not? - and perhaps you can save a brother or sister. Those who come for Reilonde, they will perish. Be warned."

"You are a fool as well as a madman," said Teinaava, shaking his head. It was not in his nature to show surprise. "Even if you speak the truth, the Black Hand will spend us all like base coin before they will renege on a contract. You know it to be true."

"Contracts can be canceled," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "You are well-connected, Brother Teinaava. If this one knew just who it is that wanted to kill the Nerevarine... Well, lives might be saved. Perhaps they are not lives that ought to be saved, but that is no concern of this one's."

Teinaava squatted slowly to retrieve his knife, not looking away from the other Argonian. Vannerjei made no move to attack.

"Why would you do this?" Teinaava asked.

"Do you not believe this one to be mad already? Then perhaps you will not be so surprised when she says she would spare harm to a sick man."

Teinaava shook his head. "I will consider it. But you are still a traitor twice over, Vannerjei who would be called Juggles-One-Dozen. Do not think yourself safe." He sheathed the knife, made himself invisible, and began to back toward the cover of the trees. He would check to make sure, but he had no doubt that the two junior assassins were already dead.

"This one never does," said Juggles-One-Dozen.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: You're going to think I made up the word "brigandish," but I didn't. Originally I said "brigandine," only to discover when I looked it up that that actually refers only to a type of light armor. Oops._

Chapter 13

"If you had run, I'd have let you live, you know," said Reilonde's strident and quite audible voice.

_Well, she's still alive, anyway._

Ashleigh stopped at the pillar and peered around one side, stifling another cough. He was not entirely surprised to see two more people, both human, wearing the black fitted armor. It was a _little _surprising that one was already dead. The body had belonged to a small woman. The head probably had, too.

He didn't take time to contemplate how this was even possible with a dagger. He was too busy trying to draw a bead on the remaining man, who was moving quite quickly around Reilonde.

The strange thing, Ashleigh thought afterward, was that Reilonde herself did not appear to move much. Her posture was low and taut, quite different from her usual brigandish swagger. She turned slowly, her larger right shoulder hunched defensively as she kept the man in front of her. And yet, whenever he struck, the blade of Keening was always there to stop his thrust. When he tried to trip her, he would have to skip back quickly to avoid her stamping on his instep. And when he tried for a desperate street-fighter's blow with his elbow, he would find his arm nearly broken as she blocked him with the heavy gauntlet that she should by no means be able to shift in time.

And Ashleigh could see it quite clearly. The Reilonde who swung her arms when she walked and glared down the world as if it owed her something was undoubtedly the same Altmer who had left the Summerset Isles who-knew-how-long ago, itching for a fight and quite without a clue what the world had in store for her. That Reilonde had probably been fond of capes because they were dramatic, and would wish for a scar because it would make her look experienced. And that Reilonde might, after years of long experience, have come to be reasonably proficient with a blade. She would never have become this indefatigable creature in front of him.

_Because this is Nerevar reborn, the saint and the warrior. This is a blade hammered on the forge of prophecy.  
_

Now she watched the assassin with a cold and furious stare.

"Come, man," she said. "Is it not Sithis you serve? Learn the faithlessness of gods!"

The Imperial, a lithe and athletic man of some inches above Reilonde's height, did not reply. But then, perhaps he had already realized that he was about to die. Ashleigh stepped from behind his pillar and moved slowly forward, feeling the magicka at his fingertips. He might risk a health drain, which would seize on the target he chose even if they changed places in the meantime -

"You do it and I swear I will kill you, Warlock," said Reilonde, who had not looked away from the assassin.

"Did my ears deceive me?" Prideaux raised his eyebrows. "Wasn't it you who called me a very devil for toying with one whom I could easily defeat?" he asked. He folded his thin arms.

"Gods damn you," said Reilonde, turning to glare at him. Feet crunched on gravel as the assassin moved, so quickly he was a blur.

Sound stopped. Reilonde stood holding Keening up to the man's chin, the blade buried to the hilt as his eyes began to glaze. Blood poured down over the Dwemer gauntlet. It seemed to flow off the enchanted metal without sticking. Reilonde had not looked away from Ashleigh. He stared into that black pit of an eye without flinching. Deep inside it the dead saint looked on with resignation as the living mer raged. He could feel the unity and the separation between them, as tangibly as if they had spoken in different voices.

"Do you think they haven't?" asked Prideaux levelly.

Reilonde looked away for a moment lowered her arm. The corpse slid free of the blade with a final gush of blood and sprawled on the soil with a wet _thump. _Then she raised her head suddenly, and this time her eye pinned him like an insect to a card. And he _was _afraid, and he wanted her desperately, and he found that this complex of warring emotions paralyzed him utterly. He watched her wipe off the blade and sheath it, and then suddenly she was there in front of him, breathing as if she had been running.

"You're a fool, or you're the bravest man I've yet laid eyes on," she said. She started to reach out with her naked left hand -

Then he heard the very deliberate scuff of a foot in the dust behind him. Reilonde twitched back, turned quickly away. Ashleigh breathed again, then coughed. Suddenly he felt every degree of the fever.

"Ah, it seems this one's old friend is a liar," said a familiar voice. "Two more assassins, yet."

Juggles-One-Dozen sauntered past to look at the two corpses. If he had any inkling of what had been about to happen, he gave no sign. For that matter, Ashleigh wasn't so very sure himself. He knew what he _wanted _to have been about to happen, and what he devoutly _hoped _might happen, but Reilonde was already walking back toward the corpses. The set of her crooked shoulders was unrevealing under her cloak.

"I'll get the saddlebags," he said. It would give him time for his circulation to return to normal, he hoped. He cursed himself silently for a fool. Let anyone offer to hurt him and he must dare them to do their worst, and gods deliver him from that particular masochism migrating over into his personal life. _God's blood. She really can destroy me. Perhaps she already has._

When he came back with his burdens, Reilonde was speaking to Juggles in what was, for her, quite an ordinary way.

"'Tis quite the daftest idea I have ever heard," she said. "And I have dived into a chasm with half a spoiled slowfall potion and the very fingers of Dagoth Ur at my throat, mind."

Juggles shrugged expressively as he turned to watch Ashleigh approach. "This one is only a humble employee. She does not seek to fathom the ways of those wiser than herself."

Ashleigh snorted. "Very amusing. Do you require healing?"

"Well, there is a trifling scratch," said Juggles-One-Dozen, and raised one arm to show the nick the assassin had made. "If you have perhaps the ability to cure poison, this one would appreciate it. She has a terrible headache. Were she not quite resistant for a Khajiit, she suspects she would be dead. No doubt it comes of having grown up in the Black Marsh where everything is poison."

"I suppose that's as good an explanation as any," said Ashleigh. _After all, it's often given as the reason why Argonians are resistant to poison. _He set down the saddlebags so that he could cast a cure and a healing spell. Afterward, he turned formally to the Altmer. "Are you injured, Madam Reilonde?"

"Nay, Master Warlock," she said. He wanted very much to know what she was thinking, but her long face was quite typically haughty and uncommunicative.

"Then we may as well push on," he said.

"Will you really go to seek this vampire?" Reilonde said. "Do you not think 'tis playing into his hands?"

Juggles-One-Dozen, apparently disinterested in the conversation, proceeded to sprawl on the grass and make daisy chains out of lady's smock with his quick fingers.

Ashleigh shrugged. "Possibly. I would like very much to know just what it is he wants." He went to start the process of saddling Pert, who nickered at him in greeting. "In any case, he cannot plan to kill me immediately. Not if this has anything to do with the Ascendancy. It's still thirteen days away."

"Can you not _guess _what he wants?" said the Altmer. "Is it not the same thing every vampire wants?"

"Blood and ultimate power?" Ashleigh was in process of tightening his girth, breathing slightly harder from lifting the weight of the saddle. Out of long habit, he waited for the chestnut to exhale before buckling it. "Certainly he can get one of those from me, but the other? Have you not yet realized how very ordinary I am? There are other Breton mages of my sign. My family is, I assure you, not particularly noble by the standards of High Rock, and is pockets to let besides - "

"These other Breton mages," said Reilonde. "How many of them would have healed me?"

Ashleigh sniffed. "Most. _I _am no moral paragon, Madam. As you have cause to know." He got the saddlebags and brought them to load onto the horse. "Other than being infected with a disease no one can identify or cure, I have no special qualities."

"Then it must be because you are ill, no?" interjected Juggles-One-Dozen, still recumbent on one elbow, but now wearing a necklace made of stems and small white flowers. "Perhaps this evil one wishes to know what afflicts you, so that he may use it to afflict others."

"That would be very foolish of him," said Ashleigh. He paused for breath, coughing. "While I admit it certainly does not make my life enjoyable, it hasn't managed to kill me in more than two years of impecunious travel. It would be hardly more than an inconvenience to a rich and well-placed individual such as, for example, Chancellor Ocato."

"Then perhaps 'tis your resistance that is of interest," said Reilonde, whose horse had been ready to go for some moments now. She stroked its brown-red neck idly.

"Perhaps. But until I meet this vampire and learn the truth, there's really no point in speculating, is there?"

Reilonde shrugged her lower shoulder, watching him haul himself into the saddle. She mounted up herself with considerably more ease.

"You'll go where you wish, Master Warlock," she said. "Did I not say I'd follow? Perhaps I will be able to repay my debt to you after all."

Juggles-One-Dozen sprang lightly to his feet.

"In any case, this one thinks it will be exciting," he said. "Fort Nikel?"

"Fort Nikel," said Ashleigh. "Lead the way, Juggles."


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I assume there _are _Nords that can sing. Just none of them seem to live in Cyrodiil. After you finish the Main Quest you're going to get very tired of hearing Nord males try to sing "The Fall of Dagon." The pirates down on the water front, on the other hand, are voiced by different actors and are quite tuneful when singing chanties._

Chapter 14

At first it seemed the Argonian's prediction was wrong. They rode through hilly terrain for hours without incident, passing through groves of deciduous trees from time to time. Fog drifted across their path, but it cleared away as the day wore on. They walked the horses. Juggles seemed to have no trouble keeping up. Eventually he abandoned the daisy chain, but periodically he would pick a fresh flower to tuck behind one one horn.

Ashleigh called a halt more than once in order to collect reagents for his potions. Neither steel blue entoloma nor flax was common northwest of the Imperial City, but he found them from time to time under the trees; and lavender, always precious when it came to potions for restoring health, was very plentiful. There was no reason to hurry. Juggles-One-Dozen, when asked, had supplied the information that Fort Nikel was perhaps one day's hard or two days' easy travel, and Ashleigh was not at all eager to arrive there without adequate preparation.

Reilonde seemed to have little to say that day. Ashleigh himself felt some degree of constraint regarding the morning's events. For one thing, he couldn't quite be sure what she had been about to do. Was this sudden reticence shame for the violence she'd been about to commit, or embarrassment that he hadn't seemed to respond to her reaching out, or something else? He wanted badly to know but could not bring himself to ask. He was never quite sure how to approach women personally. In High Rock he'd generally got as far as "I say, I don't suppose you'd like to - " before the prospective partner started laughing, said words to the effect of "No, thank you," or, on one embarrassing but subsequently memorable occasion, quoted him a price.

She must have noticed him looking at her from time to time. When they stopped in a small copse at the end of the day, and he laid out a cloth to set up his alchemy set beside the small fire Juggles-One-Dozen had made, Reilonde sat on the turf nearby and watched. Ashleigh, very typically focused on what he was doing, needed a full minute after she'd said it to realize someone had spoken. He raised his head, blinking.

"Terribly sorry, Madam. I didn't catch what you said."

"'Tis sorry I am if I offended you this morning, Master Warlock," Reilonde repeated patiently.

"If you - ?" Ashleigh opened his mouth, and shut it. "Er. Not at all, I assure you. Think nothing of it." He added experimentally, "We're both temperamental people, are we not?"

"Aye," said Reilonde. "So I was a bit surprised you didn't say anything."

"Oh, I think I can at least occasionally tell when I'm wrong," said Ashleigh dryly. He tipped the dust from the calcinator into a vial half-full of water and swirled it carefully. He glanced sideways at the Altmer. "And it _is _both rude and foolish to distract someone who is fighting for her life."

"So it was," said Reilonde sharply. "I meant after that."

"Oh. Well, once again, I can most firmly assure you I was not and am not offended." Ashleigh knew himself to be a naturally sarcastic person, but he thought he succeeded in giving the words a nice ring of truth. After all, he still had to strive mightily not to picture Reilonde, gold-skinned and scarred and naked except for the Dwemer gauntlet, tearing the robe from his body with lustful scorn, and why in _Oblivion _had he just reminded himself of that when he'd worked all day at not remembering it?

_Damn my eyes, _Ashleigh thought glumly, and went back to his alchemy, trying earnestly to think about things that weren't round or pointy and finding that a surprising number of things fit one or both of those descriptions.

After a few minutes' successful concentration, he became aware that a conversation was going on on the other side of the fire. Reilonde and Juggles-One-Dozen sat on a fallen log they had dragged over.

"Alas, this one has little time to pursue romance," said Juggles. "Gentlemen in her profession are generally not very trustworthy and, she is embarrassed to say, she has more than once been propositioned by... Well, by ladies."

"You don't say," said Reilonde. "Well, I wish I could deny it, m'dear, but it's happened to me once or twice as well. Some of them had mistaken me for a man, mind you. Hadn't heard me speak. When I was younger I couldn't afford to dress prettily, and now it doesn't suit the life I live." She snorted. "Aye, and I'm flat as a singing Nord, too. Not mentioning all of this." From the corner of his eye, Ashleigh watched her prod at her scarred face.

"Did you ever take advantage of the opportunity?" asked Juggles-One-Dozen.

Ashleigh was turned firmly away from them now, but he was afraid his crimson ears must give him away. He'd made as many restoratives as he had materials for, but he had one or two ingredients left... _Scamp skin, flour, powder and mix, _he recited silently. _Then add the other two ingredients..._

"Nay," said Reilonde. "Not even for such a handsome woman as yourself."

Juggles laughed. "Ah, but this one makes no indecent propositions, she assures you. She was only curious. It is not often she has the chance to talk with another adventuring female."

There was a pause.

"So did you ever, then?" Reilonde asked.

"Well, yes," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "Once or twice. She would not like to kiss and tell, but she certainly has had no quarrel with the experience. She still prefers the gentlemen, mind you."

Well, that solved _that _problem, Ashleigh thought, praying silently that the Argonian wouldn't feel compelled to describe _those _experiences, either. He believed firmly in the doctrine of "live and let live," but that didn't mean he wanted to hear the details.

_Not even if he _does _really think he's a woman._

"So do I," said Reilonde, and sighed.

"Do not worry, my dear," said Juggles-One-Dozen cheerfully. "Even for Nerevar reborn there will be someone. Just you wait and see."

Ashleigh held up a vial of his new philtre. The solution was a clear, dark purple. He tried a drop of it. It tingled all the way out to the tips of his fingers and toes, and he felt the flexible barrier form around him, close as a second skin. Monitoring himself carefully, he detected no negative effects.

_It's not sucking the life out of my body... It doesn't burn or freeze... It's not stunting my magicka further... And it's not hurting like a conventional poison. Perfect._

He cleared his throat politely as he reinserted the cork. "Juggles?" he said.

"Yes, friend Ashleigh," said the Argonian.

"Perhaps you may find this of some use." He scrambled upright, listening to his joints creak from the long period he'd spent seated, and held out a vial. Juggles-One-Dozen took it and held it up near the camp fire, turning it this way and that. The firelight found blue glints in the solution inside.

"This one is grateful, but what is it?" asked Juggles.

"It reflects both spells and damage," said Ashleigh. "A drop of it on your tongue should help reduce the number and severity of your injuries in the event of another vampire attack. Don't stop trying to dodge, mind you. It will work about fifty percent of the time, and one dose will only last about ten minutes."

"And it has no side effects?" asked Juggles.

"Judge for yourself," said Ashleigh. He held up one hand so that the others could see the purple shimmer over his skin and robe. "It might possibly restore your fatigue as well. Potions never seem to affect me that way, for some reason."

"You tested it on yourself," said Reilonde.

He glanced at her in surprise. "Of course, Madam."

"And what if it had come out wrong?" inquired the Altmer.

Ashleigh shrugged. "I have full magicka at this moment, and I assure you I can dispel effects on myself much more easily than I could on Juggles." He smiled tightly. "It has not been necessary for me to do so any time these past five years, mind you. I am well aware of my shortcomings, but accuracy in the mixing of potions is not among them."

"This one believes you," said Juggles, and tucked away the vial in a pouch on his belt. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," said Ashleigh. "If you're going to be in my employ, I might as well make your job easier."

"'Tis a fine sentiment, except that you'll have us walk directly into the lair of one who wishes us all dead or worse," said Reilonde.

Ashleigh shrugged, unwilling to have the argument again. "Shall I brew you one as well? I'm nearly out of scamp skin."

The Altmer shook her head, causing her pale braid to slide back over one shoulder. "I thank you, but nay. If there is aught can get past the wards I now carry, 'twill not be put off by a potion. Even a very potent one, as I am sure that is." She turned to the Argonian again. "Shall I catch us a rabbit for supper?"

"This one doubts it very much," said Juggles-One-Dozen, and grinned at her. "No, let this one do the catching of fast little things. You stay here and keep safe the master alchemist, yes." He stood up, brushed himself off daintily, and padded away among the trees.

"I _have _lived by my own knife before, you know," Reilonde said to the Argonian's vanishing back. She turned back to Ashleigh. "'Twas in Vvardenfell, I admit. And I did have to eat quite kwama egg fairly often. Kwama workers are about half as smart as rocks," she explained at Ashleigh's polite inclination of the eyebrows. "'Tis the easiest thing in the world to walk into an egg mine and steal eggs from under their noses." She laughed shortly. "'Tis no such matter as stalking small game, for certain."

"I see," said Ashleigh. "I'm afraid I've never hunted anything. My brother went hunting, of course." He raised a sardonic eyebrow at the past. "But had he invited me along, I would not have joined him. Only a fool would volunteer himself for two days in the dark woods alone with Meredith."

"It sounds as though you don't miss your brother," said Reilonde.

"I can only consider myself fortunate that Meredith generally chose to ignore me," said Ashleigh. "I'm quite sure the only reason he didn't try to kill me was that he didn't see me as enough of a threat. He gambled away everything my father left him, little as that was. We are not friends." He looked at her curiously. "Do you not have a family, Madam?"

"Nay," said Reilonde. "'Tis the damn prophecies again. Aspect and uncertain parents, remember? But even in the Summerset Isles, there are sometimes fatherless children. To be motherless as well is a bit less common, but it happens from time to time."

"Then who raised you?" Ashleigh asked.

"Nobody," said Reilonde. She shrugged. "The first I remember is the foundling hospital. Temple taught me to read, and charity kept me from starving, but there was nobody who would have taken me on as their own. To be born without lineage is damnable there. One might as well be born a leper."

"I understand," said Ashleigh, thinking about the place of birth and breeding in his own upbringing. "I don't think an Imperial would, mind you. They don't set great store by such things here."

"Gods bless 'em for it," said Reilonde. "If they do anybody. Law or no law, I'd not've stuck so close by old Caius had he not treated me better than anybody I'd known up to then." She pulled her cloak more closely around her. Ashleigh took a stick and poked at the fire.

"You mentioned a Caius Cosades before," said Ashleigh. "The same one?" Sparks flew up in front of him, bright against the darkening sky, vanishing suddenly.

"Aye," said Reilonde. "'Twas the skooma got him in the end. 'Tis thought of as a Khajiiti vice, but he could no more leave it alone than a drunk could whiskey."

"We all have our little foibles," murmured Ashleigh.

"So we have," said Reilonde. She flexed the fingers of her right hand inside the Dwemer gauntlet. He had never seen her without it.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Fort Nikel is as described, except of course for the lower levels that I completely made up after I realized I'd chosen a ruin that was basically one medium-sized, half-flooded level. Oops._

_If you have the Black Death retex of Exnem's Warrior Armor mod for the PC version of Oblivion (I use a Fantasy Figures/Robert's Males conversion I did), the foyer is occupied by a lady Breton NPC in tight black armor who will completely trash you, unless you're at least level 14 and have several reflect damage/reflect spell combo potions that are higher level than her own chance to reflect. Then you can watch the spell effects bounce back and forth. At least, that's what I did. I thought about including her for old times' sake, but she doesn't really fit with my plot plans._

Chapter 15

Ashleigh ate little and made an early night. He half-expected to be awakened partway through it, but when he felt the hard prod of Reilonde's armored finger on his shoulder it was already light. He squinted up at her blearily.

"Er, good morning?" he hazarded a croak.

"More or less," said Reilonde. "Up y'get." She pressed a vial into his hand as he disentangled himself from his blanket. He downed it without further ado, feeling the welcome tingle of magicka that meant the day had really begun and he was still alive. The morning's coughing fit could not be avoided, of course – not when he spent the night sleeping flat on his back, with vile stuff gathering in his lungs – but it seemed less severe than usual. Reilonde waited out the muffled hacking patiently.

"Thank you," Ashleigh said at last. "Were we attacked during the night?" He turned to the saddlebag beside him, put away the empty, and dug out his comb.

"Nay," said Reilonde. She knelt, gauntleted elbow resting on one kneecap, and watched him comb his hair. Hers was already braided again. "Juggles thinks we are watched, but she didn't see anything. Just a feeling she has. She's scouting our way forward."

"And what about yourself, Madam?" asked Ashleigh.

Reilonde snorted. "Were I as sensitive as an ordinary Altmer, I might not find your own presence so congenial. Did you not notice the other mages giving you a wide berth, back at the University?"

_Congenial? _Ashleigh thought.

"That was because of _you_,"he said. "They thought I was important enough to merit a bodyguard. Besides, not every mage is put off by the aura of one more powerful than himself. Or herself, I should say. Some grow stronger. And some auras are more apt to have that effect, of course," he added thoughtfully. "I am certain the Wizard Dagail is one such, and probably Master-Wizard Raminus Polus is as well."

"And d'ye not think you might give off a bit of a thorny impression?" inquired Reilonde dryly.

Ashleigh paused in the midst of saddling Pert, who seemed to be ignoring him. "I? I am not a hostile man."

"Aye. And I am the King of Orsinium," said the Altmer, whose horse was already saddled.

"The King of Orsinium is an Orc," said Ashleigh.

"So he is, Master Warlock."

Ashleigh paused in process of loading saddlebags to shake his head. "You, Madam Reilonde, possess a sad lack of faith in human nature." He paused judiciously. "Or merish nature, as the case may be."

"It may, and I have," said Reilonde. "What news, Juggles?"

Ashleigh turned to see the Argonian fading into view from a state of complete invisibility.

"That's a neat trick," he said.

"Not at all, Friend Ashleigh," said Juggles. "All Shadowborn can do something like it."

"Indeed," said Ashleigh politely, who had not been referring to this at all. Before he could express his curiosity to Reilonde, whose sidelong glance suggested she knew exactly what he meant, Juggles went on,

"This one can see the ruin from the next hill. An we start soon, we will be there long before sunset."

"We might as well," said Ashleigh. "Though I doubt the daylight will help us. Vampires wouldn't have a nest in this place if the sun shone in."

"This one agrees," said Juggles. "This one remembers it as very dark. There were no light wells of the type one sometimes finds in such places. This one had, in fact, to use the front door for entry." The Argonian sounded faintly offended at the memory.

Ashleigh waited for his arms to stop aching from his few moments' exertion before mounting up. Reilonde was already in the saddle, patting the strawberry roan's neck as she whispered in its ear.

"In any case, our best safeguard is that the ascendancy is still twelve days away," said Ashleigh, when he had got his breath back. "How much do you know of the layout of this place?"

"It is that way," said the Argonian, pointing through the trees with a clawed finger. "And this one remembers it clearly. She had to spend some hours there."

Ashleigh urged Pert in the proper direction, with the risen sun on his right. "Tell us as much as you remember. We'll need to know before we get there."

"It seems at first as if there is only one level, and that mostly one room," began Juggles-One-Dozen.

The double doors would open into a small foyer which led only to another pair of double doors, almost as if some original builder had keeping the light out in mind. There was a barred cell to either side perhaps fifty yards into the main hallway, though to what purpose the Argonian couldn't say. Nothing had been inside them. The main room could be reached by stairs to either side, but the doorways were closed by portculli opened with levers, and he had judged them too noisy.

"This one sneaked onto one of the stone beams that crosses the room instead. The statues on them are pretty." The Argonian grinned reminiscently. "Also they cast a nice large shadow. There are little guard rooms at the bottom of the stairs, and only a bit of iron fencing separates them from the main room. It is flooded up to the level of the steps. This one has no idea how they kept lit the brazier in the middle. It was above water, but it would be hard to reach it with a torch, yes, even for an agile person such as this one. Perhaps it is magic."

"But how did you get up to the beams?" Ashleigh asked.

"Oh, this one could easily have climbed the wall, but that was unnecessary. The upper hallway where the portculli are has a balcony in the middle and a walkway to either side. Each one ends at a plain little platform, hardly even a room, but they are an easy leap from the beams."

"Easy for you, Friend Juggles," said Reilonde.

"Well, yes. Although you might manage it, Friend Reilonde, this one suspects you would make a noise."

"Certain sure," agreed Reilonde dryly. The Altmer and the Argonian diplomatically refrained from commenting on the utter impossibility of Ashleigh Prideaux attempting any such feat. Once again he silently damned the impossibility of levitation in the Cyrodilic province.

"I take it that's not all there is to the fort," Ashleigh said.

"No more it is," agreed Juggles. The horses were moving along at a slow walk, requiring him to move briskly. Ashleigh noticed with tired envy that he did not seem out of breath. "The little rooms with the iron fences? The one on the left has a section of wall that moves when you touch the right brick. Then it is down a dark stairwell to the next level. It is a big stairwell, but there is no other way down. This one suspects the water in the main room is there for misdirection, for a good part of the next level is dry."

"I see," said Ashleigh. He listened as Juggles-One-Dozen described the rest of the fort, whose lower chambers were evidently quite extensive. The stairwell led to a main hallway that ran the length of the fort. There were prison cells off to the West, a good dozen or so of them, and ordinary barracks adjacent. To the East there was a slimy ramp down to another level, which must once have held storage rooms, but it was flooded almost to the ceiling throughout. Juggles had found it expedient to hide there for some time.

"And vampires there may be, but there is nary a slaughterfish left," he added with satisfaction. "This one did not go hungry while she was there. Although she does prefer them grilled."

Reilonde chuckled.

"What else is there?" asked Ashleigh, who was trying to hold all of this in his mind.

They walked on as the Argonian talked. The fort was indeed visible from the crown of the next hill, across a few rolling hills and a broad track which Ashleigh supposed to be the Red Ring Road. The inner keep skulked behind broken concentric rings of stone, what was left of the outer fortifications. Not much detail was visible at that distance.

"There is a second great room at the end of the main hall," said Juggles. "Intended once for exercise in arms, perhaps. There are the old sword-work dummies made of wood, chained up on the two platforms to either side of the door. The stairs are steep. They cast a useful shadow to each side, however. There are two big pillars there, and not much else to that room – this one recalls there were some old bookshelves. The bandits did not go there much."

"Is there nothing else to the East?" Ashleigh asked.

"This one was getting there," said the Argonian. He paused to pluck up a blue flax bloom, which he sniffed approvingly. "There was officers' country, once upon a time. Now it is just a few rooms with ceilings a little higher than the rest. This one found a couple of intact bedsteads still in use, and some nice old furniture which was harmed somewhat by the damp. This one gathered it was too heavy and too far for the robbers to remove it. That was all."

"Let me see if I have it all straight," said Prideaux, and began to repeat back the description, trying to picture it all as he did so. Juggles corrected him on one or two points, but he was mostly right. Reilonde, on the other hand, went through flawlessly from beginning to end.

"Perfect," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

"Only because I went first," said Ashleigh.

"'Tis no fault of yours that your memory is not as good as mine," said Reilonde.

"You go straight to Oblivion," Ashleigh invited her cordially. She laughed.

They went on in mutual good humor, either in spite of or because of the approaching danger. The fort drew slowly nearer. It did not look particularly ominous in the sun. As the morning wore on into afternoon, Ashleigh began to pick out the bright hues of morning glories growing draped on the broken fortifications. The blue and purple flowers were quite lovely against the bone-colored walls.

For the last part of the journey they took the Red Ring Road. They passed one pair of Legionnaires, mounted on great chestnut horses, but the soldiers nodded to them politely and moved on. (Pert whickered at a mare, who seemed to ignore him.) One of the men glanced back over his shoulder at Juggles-One-Dozen, who was still something of a vision in his stitched leathers and beaded ribbons. The Argonian smiled back in a friendly way. The soldier looked quickly forward again.

"I gather nothing suspicious is reported about the fort yet," said Ashleigh, when the men were out of earshot.

Reilonde shrugged. "Whatever happens, it will happen at night. And if this Master has played his hand well, he will not let his minions out to harm passersby. Not on a road this well patrolled."

"Then he chose this place poorly," said Ashleigh. "If there are enough that he can spare the ones he sent after us, they will be thirsty, will they not?"

"Aye, that one bothers me," said Reilonde. "Vampires are always thirsty. Most of 'em can go for weeks and not drink and it only makes them stronger, but not many can do it a-purpose. Drives all but the strongest of them half-mad."

Ashleigh looked at her curiously. "How d'you know all that?"

"You've been to Skingrad, yea or nay?" she asked him.

"Indeed I have," he said. "How's that to the purpose?"

"Were you not seeking a cure for your illness? Did you not therefore ask the most powerful wizard in the city?"

"Oh, you mean Count Janus Hassildor," said Ashleigh. "He wouldn't see me. I suppose my letters of introduction from the Guild didn't impress him."

"He is not exactly a friend to the Guild, from what I hear," said Reilonde. "And he sees almost no one since the Countess died. It was on that occasion that I met him." She paused for a moment, apparently debating how much and what to say. "He is something of a local expert on vampires. 'Tis hard to convince him to talk of it, but if you can, he has much to tell."

"Oh," said Ashleigh. He considered this. "I suppose you're used to dealing with public figures."

"More or less," said Reilonde. "It did no harm that he had heard of Keening and Wraithguard."

"Wraithguard is that gauntlet's name?" Ashleigh asked.

"Aye."

"Some of the old vampires can bear the deprivation better than young ones," said Juggles-One-Dozen unexpectedly. He had tucked the flax bloom into one of his ribbons. "For the power it brings them, this one has known them to do so."

Ashleigh eyed the Argonian. "I suppose there's no point in my asking how _you _know that, friend Juggles."

"No, Friend Ashleigh," said Juggles, grinning up at Prideaux. "There is not."


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: This birth sign really does have this ability. I try not to think of it as Date Rape Magic. :p_

Chapter 16

Fort Nikel, once reached, offered no immediate threat. The morning glories grew thick over the walls, seemingly undisturbed by any violence, and there was pink primrose and varicolored flax underfoot. A slight breeze ruffled the few strands of Ashleigh's thin hair that had already escaped the ribbon. The three of them stood within the outer walls and looked at the rough semicircle formed by the double doors in front of them. They had staked the horses out by the road, where they might at least be found and cared for if their riders did not return. Ashleigh fingered his potion satchel for the comfort it brought.

"'Tis too quiet by half," said Reilonde. Her voice seemed piercingly loud over the near-inaudible rustle of grasses. Juggles-One-Dozen did not look worried, but he _was _spinning his dagger on a fingertip again, no longer showing an interest in the flowers.

"No sense in wasting time," said Ashleigh. He reached for one of the heavy wooden portals and hauled it open. The bright daylight revealed, rather anticlimactically, a short hallway with a short stair and another pair of doors at the end. There was still no sign of life. "Hm. One moment, I'll cast a life detection."

"I'll hold the door," said Reilonde. "If there are vampires within, they won't risk opening the inner one."

"Thank you," said Ashleigh, gratefully relinquishing the heavy portal. He raised one hand and concentrated. A puff of purple light, diffuse as dust, burst around his hand, and then the spell took effect and he saw -

Ashleigh squinted. "Oh, dear," he said.

"A lot of them, are there?" asked Reilonde.

"They're too close together for me to count," said Ashleigh, who was looking at a solid wall of glowing purple behind the other door. "They must be packed in wall-to-wall and ten deep."

"Heard us coming," grunted Reilonde. "But then, some of 'em will have been mer."

"Yes," said Ashleigh. He looked at the crowd behind the doors, and felt his lips draw back over his teeth. "D'you suppose they can hear us now, then?"

"Shall I open that inner door?" asked Reilonde. Ashleigh watched the frantic stir of motion this caused. A perfect aisle had formed in less than a second.

"Ah," he said. "Well, that answers that." Beside him, Juggles-One-Dozen was calmly using a finger to slather stuff from a vial onto the edges of his dagger. Ashleigh almost told him to be careful not to cut himself, not with the poison on his hand, but he bit his tongue. The Argonian clearly knew what he was doing, and probably not even Ashleigh's direst brew could outright kill one of that race. Not in a _small _dose, anyway.

"Friend Reilonde, this one thinks she might have a word with them," said Juggles. He grinned, showing all his sharp teeth. "They seem to her like very _deserving _people."

Ashleigh reflected that calling this utterly mad, as was his first thought, probably would not be diplomatic, however literally true it was. "Are you sure that is a good idea?" he asked.

"Lean on this door, Ashleigh," said Reilonde, and started for the inner one. Prideaux, perforce, shoved his weight against the outer one lest the light be cut off. Reilonde strode forward, seized the handle of the door on the right, and hauled back. A shaft of light shot forward into the next hallway. It was broad enough for five men to walk abreast, but the light from the door left a line of darkness up the side, and Reilonde could not hold both doors open at once. The left side was quite dark. Ashleigh tracked the slow boil of movement back into that shadow as the inhabitants realized this. One single figure peeled off and ran inhumanly fast off down the hall, keeping to the darkness. The purple glow quickly vanished out of range of Ashleigh's life detection.

_Carrying tidings to the Master, no doubt. _Ashleigh wondered if they were expected.

Juggles-One-Dozen sauntered past Reilonde without hesitation, the dagger hanging loose in his right hand. He was two steps into the path of light, casting a long shadow before him, when a white blur of a hand darted out into the beam to snatch at the blade. Juggles appeared to flick his fingers. There was a hiss, and the attacker withdrew.

There was a sound like two powder-puffs being struck together, and ash drifted out into the sunbeam. One or two small particles flashed like sparks and vanished. Ashleigh watched a patch of purple glow flicker out.

Either the vampires didn't realize what had happened, or they were slow learners. Juggles edged toward the other side, as if away from his previous attacker, and then a couple of pairs of white hands reached for him from behind. This time they were slow enough, just, that Ashleigh could see the smoke begin to rise off them as they came into the light.

The Argonian made another flickering movement. Fingers dropped toward the floor, burst into ash. This time one of the creatures screamed before it died, and then there were more puffs of dust circling in the sun. Juggles became a blur, his shadow spinning around him as the tip of the knife darted in and out of the darkness to either side of the aisle of light. Ashleigh watched past Reilonde's shoulder as she leaned hard against the inner door, holding it open. It seemed to go on for just a minute or so, but a sizable percentage of the purple cloud was gone by the time the Argonian did a neat dive roll out into the entry hall past Reilonde.

"It rubbed off," he reported. "But it did last for some time, Friend Ashleigh. Give this one a moment and she will have the rest of them."

"That's torn it," said Ashleigh, watching the purple cloud dissipate. The patter of rapidly retreating feet, bare soles slapping on stone, was quite audible. "They've run off."

"They'll wait for us further in," said Reilonde. She eased the inner door shut and moved back toward Ashleigh. He could not read her expression through the purple cloud of the life detect, so he dispelled it. A moment later the three of them stood together in the sun again.

"I wouldn't worry about that, did I suppose that was all of them," said Ashleigh slowly. "I'll wager there are many more down where the light can't reach."

Reilonde shrugged, looking at him with chilly humor. "There is no easy way on from here, Ashleigh Prideaux. Did y'not know that when you decided to bring us? Will you not turn back, and live?"

"I won't turn back," said Ashleigh. He looked into her single dark eye. She sighed.

"Did I ever tell you what my birth sign is?"

"I must admit, I've wondered," he said.

She stepped forward, put her ungloved left hand up to his face – it was warm to the touch – and planted a long and lingering kiss on his cold lips. Ashleigh was too startled to respond at first, and then he couldn't move. In fact, he couldn't move at all. Reilonde caught him as he toppled forward, giving him an excellent view down the front of her tunic which he was far too angry to properly enjoy.

"The Lover," said Reilonde. "Can you imagine anything more useless? Particularly when there's nary a soul I've so wanted to kiss." She sat him down against the wall. Morning glory leaves brushed his neck as his head lolled, heart pounding in his ears. She kissed him again, softly, on the cheek. Then she whispered in his ear,

"I hope you will pardon the liberty, Ashleigh. I know you don't care for me that way." Ashleigh's heart beat faster in frustrated fury, for he could not open his lips to protest the contrary. The Altmer stood up and turned to Juggles-One-Dozen, who stood with his fists on his hips. "Shall we see about these filthy vampires, my dear?"

"Indeed we shall," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "Did not this one promise to keep safe the Warlock?" Both of them passed out of his view without a backward glance. He listened to the sound of the outer door open and close. Straining his ears, he just barely heard the inner one. He tried his paralysis cure. Nothing happened. The power of the kiss was of a higher order than the cure he had learned.

_Of course, she must've guessed that, or she wouldn't have done it, _he thought glumly. _But then, abilities granted by a birth sign are not the same as learned magic. I'm quite sure Juggles-One-Dozen couldn't cast an illusion spell to save his life, except for that single cloak of invisibility._

And what did the two of them think they were about to do, armed with daggers and completely without anyone who could do fire magic? This was not like the defense against five monsters who had not expected the least resistance. These would be many, possibly armed, certainly waiting. Ashleigh tried again to move. One eyelid twitched.

Against how many _could _the Nerevarine defend herself? Ashleigh was certainly no soldier – gods deliver him from _that _fate – but he was sure that a furious fight in close quarters, even with a proficient foe, was nothing to a scrambling melee against two dozen. Juggles-One-Dozen was with her, and he was quick and agile. But quick as a vampire? How long would he last, without the sunbeam to keep them off him?

Ashleigh tried the cure again. Nothing. He could move two fingers of his right hand now, just barely. At this rate, it would be an hour before he could stand. Reilonde clearly expected him to leave at that point.

_No, _he thought_. Even after so few days, she knows me better than that. She must be assuming I'll wait for them out here._

_DAMN that mer. _Her presumption infuriated him. And if they two were killed or captured, what did she think he would do? Wander off without finding out what had happened?

_Small chance of that, _he thought, trying to push away anger and arousal so that he could think. There was no point in trying to relax, since he still couldn't move, but at least he could try to breathe deeply.

_The ruin is large. It hardly seems likely that they would return before night falls. And if there is anything undead inside by then, they will be out and seeking me, _thought Ashleigh_. _He might perhaps reach the relative safety of the City before dark, if he started the instant the paralysis wore off and rode harder than he had in two years. But that he would not do.

_I had rather be a fool a thousand times than a coward once. _But that was how he'd got here, wasn't it? That way of thinking was all very well when it only did himselfharm. He had a hard time believing that the apparently impervious Reilonde would be killed (and not only because his mind simply refused to accept the idea, he told himself firmly). The trouble was that he was less sure about Juggles-One-Dozen. There were any number of things about the situation that were not in an assassin's favor (for he had no doubt that was what the Argonian was). The ability to stealthily kill and escape again, even when the target was well-guarded and themselves quite dangerous, was in a different category from the ability to face down several inhumanly strong and fast opponents who would not be taken by surprise.

Juggles and Reilonde would not be able to fight like soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, each killing those who would kill the other one. That might be what an experienced pair of Legionnaires would do, but Ashleigh would stake his life that neither of them had ever been trained for a soldier. They would fight like warriors, each against whoever attacked them and quite ignoring the other one, and they would be swarmed under. He could picture it quite clearly, even as he managed to flop one arm up and down again. The toes of his left foot curled convulsively inside his soft shoe. While paralyzed he could not cough, and his throat itched terribly, his chest beginning to feel heavy.

_The vampires are not trained as an army, _he thought, remembering their reaction to Juggles's attacks. _It probably is not possible to so train them, not even for their Master. I wonder what hold he has over them? That might bear looking into, if I survive. Their sire, perhaps?_

The penultimate of these thoughts made him realize that he had, in fact, made up his mind. He was not perfectly sure how far into the ruin Juggles and Reilonde would have got by the time he could move. (An attempt to bunch the muscles of his trunk merely caused him to fall over onto his side, rustling the grass. He did manage to blink a grass seed out of his left eye, however.)

He would not wait for darkness. If they were all right, no harm would come of it, for he could not be easily mistaken for a vampire. And if they were not, whoever was in there probably would not expect him so soon. He still had his potion satchel. In fact, it was giving him something of a bruise on his left thigh at the moment, because he had fallen over on it.

_The ascendancy is the tenth night from this one, _he recognized silently. _If this Master wants me for that, he won't kill me right away._

Ashleigh coughed. All at once, he realized he was able to move. The coughing necessarily went on for a while, but in the meantime he managed to get himself upright and off the uncomfortable satchel. He hadn't spent much of his magicka so far, and he didn't want to drink another potion until he needed it. No doubt that would be soon enough.

He cast his life detection spell again, to see if the coughing had attracted anything. There was no sign of life anywhere within his range. Apparently Reilonde and Juggles had succeeded in attracting some attention.

Ashleigh Prideaux sighed, coughed once more, and stepped forward to haul open the door.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Prideaux paused inside the outer doors, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he cast a spell of night eye. Everything grew lighter as it flattened into tints of blue. He could cast another life detection, but the greater discharge of magicka might draw someone's attention. Besides, if Reilonde and Juggles-One-Dozen had made it more than a hundred yards, nobody would be looking this way.

He pulled open a heavy inner door, feeling his arm muscles creak. It was still in the hall beyond. He heard no sound of breathing or running feet or screaming. Up ahead, he saw the dark doorways that must lead to the cells Juggles had described, and further ahead was a lighter doorway and a bit of iron fencing.

_The balcony. _Ashleigh went toward it as quickly as he dared, trying to stay quiet. A vampire would probably hear his heart beating, if they were close, but if they were far off and preoccupied with slaughter in their midst...

Had he heard something? A distant shout? Ashleigh froze, listening. A moment later it came again. He couldn't make out the words, but the voice was Reilonde's. His heart gave a great thud in his chest, and he wanted to charge forward immediately, but that would be foolish in the extreme.

_I won't be a bit of help to them if I slip and break my neck._

Ashleigh turned to the left, found the portcullis and the lever, and hauled on the rusty contraption until it finally yielded. The portcullis creaked mightily on its way up. He went lightly down the stairs, trying to watch his footing. The floor and walls were shiny through his blue-filtered vision, as if they might be slick. No doubt there was condensation from the flooded room ahead -

And there it was. Someone had left the double doors open. He thought he knew who. There was ash on the floor, but only a little. Not much resistance had been encountered at this point, probably. The doors opened onto a landing, and the landing ended at the edge of the lapping water. Ashleigh cast the spell again, lest its duration run out and leave him on slippery footing. There was indeed a great brazier out in the middle of the indoor lake. The fire glowed bright blue to his altered vision. He still saw no signs of life.

There should be an unobtrusive doorway to his right. Ashleigh turned to look, not wishing to touch the slimy walls. He found it after a few seconds. It wasn't even a doorway, really, just a gap between two walls. There was the other landing, and the wrought-iron fence, and another small pile of ashes.

A part of the wall was open, just as if it had been a door on hinges. The opening was big enough to admit three people walking abreast. Ashleigh edged up to it, listening. Somewhat to his dismay, he heard no sounds of scuffling from below.

_Nothing for it. _He downed a potion, put away the empty, and dug out a second one. He held the little vial in a sweaty hand as he edged down the steep ramp. The full charge of magicka made him feel jittery. Lightning trembled in his bones, effervescence behind his eyes.

The walls were slick here, too, and fungi squelched underfoot from time to time. He was reminded of the unpleasant old wives' tale that said cairn bolete cap grew where someone had died. There must have been quite a massacre in this tunnel at some point in the past. A path had been trod out down the middle, but he rejected it as probably slicker than walking over the mushrooms.

The sloping ramp seemed to go around and down for a long time. Eventually he heard voices from below.

"Heard any news from the other parts of Tamriel?" It was an unfamiliar man's voice. It was almost ordinary, not particularly strained or feral.

"What in Oblivion is wrong with you?" hissed another, and more definitely vampiric one. "Too many charm spells? Start sweeping. Now."

"They say that syndicates of wizards have led a boycott of Imperial goods in the land of the Altmer," the first voice went on, as if it hadn't heard.

"I don't give a tinker's dam about the land of the Altmer. Move it, or you're getting a beating. Stupid cattle."

"I've heard others say the same," said the surreally polite voice of the original speaker, and then the vampire's muttered swearing retreated out of hearing range. Ashleigh continued his careful progress downward, listening to the erratic contact of a broom with the stone floor. His night eye spell ran out, but he did not want to recast it until he knew what has happening below.

Given what he'd just heard, he was not completely surprised to round the last bend in the ramp and see the great hallway with its floor covered in gray dust. It was lit by a faint, eerie glow that seemed to have its source in a few flickering torches high up on the walls. He pressed himself against the wall beside the doorway, making a small moue of distaste at the damp, and peered around the post. Splashes of dark blood decorated the walls here and there, but the floor was so covered that it looked as if a volcano had just erupted.

A man was trying to sweep the ash to one side. As best Ashleigh could make out, he was dressed in the ragged remains of linen trousers and a woolen shirt of decent fit, the sort of thing a middle-class merchant might wear. He looked wan and prematurely aged, and the skin on his face sagged as if he had lost a lot of weight quite suddenly. He was smiling as he worked. Ashleigh could tell, because a thin scum of green light covered him from head to toe. Prideaux shuddered.

He risked a life detection, a lesser spell than the one he usually used. There were several purple energy signatures off to the left, presumably in the cells, and a few more off in the distance. There was just one ahead and down a few feet, somewhere on the bottom level. Perhaps the vampires, unlike the bandits, had initiated a patrol of the area. It wasn't as if they had to worry about drowning.

Ashleigh eyed the man again, gauging the level of the charm spell by the small magical radiation from the man's body, and cast an appropriate dispel. The blue puff of light struck him in the shoulder, dispersed rapidly over his body, and vanished. He turned immediately toward Ashleigh, hand raised as if to ward off a blow.

"I mean you no harm," Ashleigh said in a loud whisper. "I've just dispelled the charm you were under. I need to talk to you. Could you come over here?"

"I can't," said the man in a low voice. "Someone will be checking from down there." He waved at the other end of the hall. "They'll come back if they see I'm not sweeping. Get back in the doorway." He applied himself quickly to his task as Ashleigh retreated behind the post again. "I don't know how you got in here, friend, but you'd better go, and quick," he added wearily. "There's not many of them left now. You might make it."

"Why don't _you _run, Sir?" Ashleigh asked him, peering around the door post when he was sure he was in shadow. "There's not a soul left upstairs."

"They have my wife," he said, without looking up from what he was doing. "She's locked in the cells."

"How many prisoners are there?" Ashleigh asked.

"Just five, now. Ignatius died yesterday. That's the wrong question, though," he added grimly. "You ought to be asking how many of the monsters are left."

"How many _are _left?" Ashleigh asked. "And what happened? And what's your name, Sir? I'm Ashleigh Prideaux."

"Eustacian Antippus," said the man. "A couple of – well, I'm not sure what they were. They fought like demons, though. I never heard such a slaughter. We had clouds of ash blowing clear into the cells. There were more than sixty down here when they started, and maybe ten left now. The Master's been recruiting for weeks. He hasn't been letting them feed much, and all of them were pretty lean and hungry by now. I think those two might've killed every one of the filthy vermin if it hadn't been for the Master."

"What did he do?" asked Ashleigh quietly, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"Paralyzed one of them and tried to fry the other one," said the man. He had already cleared a good-sized square of flooring. "They caught the Argonian – poor bastard – but the Altmer dove down a grate into the basement. Maybe she burned to death. Maybe she drowned. Nobody knows. They barricaded the door to the other ramp, but they're afraid to go look for her without the Master. And _he _doesn't want to look either. Nobody's likely to ask _him _why."

Ashleigh looked at the floor again during this recital, but his life detection had worn off. It didn't matter. He knew.

_The only way they could save themselves was to pen her up, _he thought, and smiled grimly to himself_. And she'll have sunk like a rock with that gauntlet on, and stap me if she'll have taken it off. She must have a water breathing amulet hid somewhere._

That left the more urgent matter of Juggles-One-Dozen.

"Where's the Argonian?" Ashleigh asked.

"In a cell," said Antippus. "He's been bitten about twenty times. If he doesn't die outright from the blood loss, he'll be one of them."

Ashleigh swore softly. He could heal, and he could cure, but healing the wounds wouldn't do anything for the blood loss. Juggles would undoubtedly remain unconscious for hours, and he was too heavy for Ashleigh to carry him up without using his most powerful feather spell. That wouldn't last long enough to get him all the way back to the surface, and then he'd have to stop and take another potion and _then _he'd have to come back for Reilonde, because he was damned if he'd leave her behind. He would have to think of something else -

He felt the prickle of magicka all the way from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Someone had just cast a life detection of considerable power. Ashleigh's pulse sped up as he downed the potion he'd been clutching all this time.

"_Ashleigh Prideaux!" _boomed a voice from the other end of the hallway, magnified and redoubled by the echo. "Yes, my dear fellow, I know you're there," it continued, in a rough tenor. The accent was very definitely familiar. "You may as well come out and have a word. Molag knows I've been through enough trying to get you here."

Eustacian Antippus had scuttled for the doorway to the cells at the first sound. Ashleigh couldn't blame him. He contemplated his chances if he were to run and was forced to rate them very low. He'd spent enough effort getting _down _the ramp that he had no illusions whatsoever about his ability to get back up it quickly. And after all, wasn't this who he'd come to see? He might as well be about it.

Ashleigh tucked away the empty vial and stepped out into the great hallway. The ceiling seemed very distant, with the torches guttering too high and far away for a man to reach even standing on another's shoulders. He walked through the drifts of ash toward the doorway at the end. The double doors swung open as he watched. A man stood silhouetted against the brighter room beyond. He was taller than Ashleigh, and his shoulders were broader. It was hard to make out his features, backlit as he was, but the beaky sharp-chinned profile that he turned to the light seemed familiar as the voice.

_And so it ought, _Ashleigh thought, and forced himself to keep walking forward. The ash stirred up by his feet stung the insides of his nostrils and the back of his throat, making him cough. _I knew already that this creature must know me. I wonder who it is? I haven't seen anyone from my own city in more than two years. Gods save me from any more meetings like _this _one._

_If I survive this one, that is._

"Who are you?" Ashleigh demanded, when he was a few yards off.

"Come in and see for yourself," said the Master. He turned and walked back into the room. Ashleigh, perforce, followed him. He felt the stir of magicka around and past him, so he did not jump as the doors slammed behind him.

"Parlor tricks," said Ashleigh. The walls loomed up to either side immediately within the door, but he saw that the room opened out as he moved further in. A few bright candles kept it much lighter than the drafty hallway. There were stairs to either side, just as he had been told, and platforms above. One held a bedstead with a single woolen blanket. The other held an antique table of an elegant round design, the legs beautifully turned. A bottle and glasses stood on it, and there was a cupboard against the wall. Ashleigh saw no sign of any wooden training dummies. Apparently they hadn't suited the present inhabitant's idea of décor.

"Ah, yes," said the Master. "You never were very good at telekinesis, were you? Do join me for a drink. I have some quite passable Shadowbanish wine. One does get tired of _only _blood, you know."

"In fact, I don't know," said Ashleigh. He had to pause at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. This, necessarily, entailed more coughing, which he did his best to muffle. He felt rather than saw the Master turn to watch him. The man was clad in a doublet and hose of dark green velvet. Gold braid glittered in the candlelight.

"Tsk," he said. "That sounds uncomfortable, but I suppose that's only to be expected. Would you like to sit down?"

"Thank you," Ashleigh said. "On the whole, I think I would not." He straightened carefully, looking at the man's face.

It looked very much like his own. The inescapable aging of the vampiric state had thinned and harrowed it, and the irises of the eyes were red instead of blue, but the features were quite identifiable. Ashleigh felt the certainty like a fist to the gut.

"Meredith," he said, when he felt himself able to speak. "Well. You _have _changed. I'm afraid I didn't recognize your voice. Do pardon me."

"Of course, Ashleigh, of course," said his brother, and turned to pour out wine into two glasses. "May I take your satchel?"


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Ashleigh smothered a cough. "I think I would prefer to retain it."

"Suit yourself. It won't make a particle of difference, you know. Join me?" Meredith took a sip from each glass, then offered one to Ashleigh. Ashleigh took it, but didn't take a drink. There were too many ways to poison someone with something you were going to drink yourself.

_Particularly for a vampire and a powerful mage. _And Meredith _was _powerful. More than he had ever been in both their lives, if Ashleigh was any judge. His very presence warped the magicka around him. It gave Ashleigh an unpleasant feeling of things crawling and scratching at him, as if the air were full of brambles.

"How exactly did you come to catch porphyric hemophilia?" Ashleigh asked. "I haven't heard from you these past two years and more."

"I gathered that you did not wish it," said Meredith dryly. He took another sip of the wine. "It wasn't easy, but I managed it. It's quite possible to capture a vampire, if one does it carefully and chooses one of the ferals. Not safe for a mortal to tamper with the ones who can think. Not safe at all. You should keep it in mind, little brother."

"Indeed I shall," said Ashleigh, who had always hated to be called _little brother_. "I am to believe, then, that you did this to yourself on purpose?"

"Oh, quite," said Meredith.

"I suppose I ought not be surprised," Ashleigh said. "You always did enjoy having power over people, and you couldn't buy it for yourself after you gambled away what Father left you."

"A pittance, compared to what I've gathered here," said Meredith, an edge of scorn to his voice. "You've got it backwards. You see, once you have power, it's actually rather easy to acquire wealth."

"Indeed," said Ashleigh. "So, having acquired wealth and power, what is it you want me for? I believed you had no more use for me than I for you."

"That was true once," said Meredith airily. "You might as well put that down if you're not going to drink it, Ashleigh. I thought you might be thirsty. - It was true once, but I am pleased to say I have found a use for you."

"Not one I am likely to enjoy, I gather," Ashleigh said. He set the silver wine glass down on the table. "Else you need not have sent vampires to try and kidnap me."

"Too true," said Meredith. "You see, when I decided I would like to become a vampire, it occurred to me that certain of our relations might disapprove. It also occurred to me that I had heard rumors of a cure for porphyric hemophilia even in its completely symptomatic form. I thought, therefore, that it might be preferable for me to derive a strain of the disease that could not be cured magically."

"You've burnt your bridges," said Ashleigh. He found he was unable to feel surprise.

"Just so," said Meredith. "Very like me, wasn't it? It's not terribly easy to fiddle with the mechanics of a contagious disease, but with my captured vampire and a couple of, well, let us call them volunteers, I managed it. I knew that if magicka could encourage a weakness to disease or a resistance against it in a person, it should be possible also to increase or decrease the virulence of a disease. The active particles are too small to be seen with the naked eye, and frankly I still have no idea how they work, but I can assure you the strain with which I am infected is quite incurable. It also acts much faster than porphyric hemophilia ordinarily does – nearer to twenty-four hours than thirty-six. And the transmission is more controllable, because it takes a dram of the vampire's blood transmitted to the victim for successful infection. I must admit, I'm very pleased with the results in every infected case except one."

"One," said Ashleigh. His face must have shown what he was thinking. Meredith, now fully self-possessed again, shot him a sly sideways glance.

"Ah, you begin to understand," said Meredith. "Since you _are _my own flesh and blood, I had every reason to believe my new strain would act on you exactly as it had on me. The risk should have been minimal." He drained his glass and set it on the table. "And you, being your usual oblivious self, didn't even wake up. I haven't the faintest idea why you came down with some sort of consumptive lung disease instead of turning into a vampire. It quite perplexes me."

"You loathsome, twisted bastard," Ashleigh hissed. Lightning revolved in his bones, defying the thorny aura that still spun in the air around him. "I should burn you where you stand."

"You can't," said Meredith. "I may not have been your equal in magery before, but I'm twice as powerful now. And _I _am not afflicted with your unfortunate birth sign. Do calm yourself. I haven't finished speaking."

Ashleigh opened his mouth to make a furious retort. While doing so he made the mistake of looking his brother in the eye.

He felt an immediate sensation of falling forward, a sensation completely divorced from the physical. Meredith had always been _good _at telepathy. It had, once upon a time, been his greatest talent. Ashleigh could feel him inside his own head now, searching about for some footing that would give him possession. Ashleigh scrambled frantically to pile up walls against that piercing, overbearing weight of psychic power, against the slide into the pit that would mean complete loss of his own will. Meredith blew away the safeguards like leaves in a hurricane, and all that was left was the one locked box Ashleigh had been able to secure, the one which Meredith must surely know held his most precious, most secret thought.

The box flew open as Meredith tore at the lock. Ashleigh could see it in his mind's eye as his brother reached inside with greedy hands and found:

_PAIN. Electricity jolted through Ashleigh's body as he mocked the bandit Garander. Every individual cell was forced to discharge its reservoir of energy at once. It was like the sound of nails on a chalkboard, felt with every tiny particle of his being. The agony was exquisite -_

Ashleigh was spun halfway around by Meredith's backhand slap. He teetered on the edge of the stone platform as he felt his brother's furious withdrawal, and then a strong hand seized the front of his robe, holding him right at the edge. He opened his eyes and looked up into the vampire's narrow crimson gaze.

_PAIN. Fire scorched the ends of his hair and burned his eyebrows, and he felt his skin beginning to crack and peel -_

Meredith's eyes flickered aside. He bared his teeth. Breath that stank of wine and blood washed over Ashleigh.

"I could drop you," he said.

Ashleigh laughed in his face.

"Do it," he said. "But you'd better hope I die, because if I don't, sooner or later you'll look me in the eye again. The problem with telepathy, my dear Meredith, is that if you're really good at it, you can't escape empathy. I have an extremely good memory. And you are a coward."

"Am I?" Meredith jerked him contemptuously away from the edge, back toward the table, and released him. Ashleigh righted himself, resisting the urge to raise a hand to his swelling cheekbone. Even in his anger, Meredith had not permitted himself to lose control, or the blow might easily have killed him.

"Say what you have to say," said Ashleigh. He watched with satisfaction as Meredith's fist clenched, but the vampire forcibly relaxed it.

"The thing about power is that there's never enough of it," said Meredith Prideaux. "And the thing about the daedric lord Molag Bal is that he's always amenable to giving power to mortals – provided the sacrifice is great enough."

"You're planning to sacrifice me to Molag Bal?" Ashleigh asked blankly. "That seems a bit..."

"Tame, yes, I know." Meredith waved a hand irritably. "Fortunately for me, you've kept the line since last we met. The Divines know your name. You are still a good man. And I'm aware that you must have some vestige of the Prideaux strength of will for that to still be the case, after two years of constant sickness. _I _would have sought some more drastic solution to the problem in the first six months."

"Yes," agreed Ashleigh.

"Molag Bal delights in the ruin of the virtuous, you know."

"Ah. So you're going to ruin me and _then _sacrifice me." Ashleigh nodded thoughtfully. "That seems a bit more like you." He was past the point of feeling dread now. "So, given that virtue is an internal quality, how exactly will you do that? You have a virgin in your cells you want me to ravish?"

"Ha," said Meredith. "No, I'm quite sure you'd be able to resist _that."_ He said this as if it was something he had already anticipated, and not as if he had just been thwarted in an attempt to invade Ashleigh's mind. Ashleigh wondered if the virgin had perhaps been his first plan. "In any case, being physically forced to do evil might not leave you culpable. I admit to some uncertainty on the theological point. So it will have to be something you decide to do of your own free will." He smiled tightly. "The ascendancy is some days away. I've no doubt I'll think of something."

"I think this conversation has gone on quite long enough," said Ashleigh, and threw the largest fireball he could cast. The vampire dodged it with supernatural speed. It exploded against a wall all the way across the other platform, temporarily outshining the candles.

"Suit yourself, little brother," said Meredith. He dodged the next fireball just as easily. Ashleigh raised a shield just in time to deflect a ball of ice almost as large as his body. It drove him back a step. He fumbled at his potion satchel, realizing he was about to run out of magicka.

"Running low?" Meredith asked cordially, and stepped forward to seize Ashleigh's arm. He tried to pull free. He might as well struggle against an iron cuff. Then the power arced between them, an eye-hurting green light, and Ashleigh felt the strength drain from his body along with the last dram of his magicka. He tried to draw power through the link, but Meredith was, if not as powerful as he thought himself, certainly strong enough not to fall for that. Ashleigh sagged. Meredith let go of his arm, and he thudded to the stone floor, his temple bouncing against the stone.

That was all he knew for some time.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"Don't be tiresome, Ashleigh," said Meredith's voice. "You've been asleep for _more _than long enough."

He had been dreaming of thorn bushes. Waking was a relief, though the sensation of things scratching at him persisted. Prideaux heard someone cough. A moment later he realized the voice was his own. He squeezed his eyes open reluctantly, expecting to see his brother bending over him. Instead he saw a stone ceiling, hardly lit by the glow of distant torchlight. He was lying on something hard. When he moved it slid under him, as if a blanket lay between him and the surface.

He sat up. The change in position made him urgently aware of his half-clogged throat. While the ensuing coughing fit progressed, he looked around. He was in a small room with stone walls. One wall consisted of bars.

_One of the cells in the jail wing, _he recognized. He was not at all surprised to see Meredith standing outside the bars, just far enough to avoid touching them and getting rust on his green tunic. For the first time, he noticed that his brother's hair had gone gray. It was cropped close and neat. Ashleigh wondered how he managed it, hidden here in this ruin. He couldn't imagine Meredith cutting his own hair. There was movement in the shadows beyond him which Ashleigh's eye could not decipher.

_The others are watching._

The coughing trailed off at last, leaving him with a headache. Ashleigh felt for the satchel at his hip without thinking. It was gone.

"Don't be a fool," said Meredith. "I've left you some water."

Ashleigh looked around and discovered the small wooden table, hardly more than a foot stool, beside the bench on which he sat. There was a pitcher and a cup. He poured himself some water with a shaking hand. It tasted of dirt and mushrooms, but it was potable.

"Dare I ask how long it has been?" Ashleigh asked.

"More than a day," said Meredith.

_Oh, gods. _He set down the cup so quicky that it sloshed. Reilonde had been trapped in the lower story, almost surely underwater, for twenty-four hours. Juggles-One-Dozen must surely be dead. _Please, Divines, let him be dead._

"I healed you after you hit your head," Meredith's monologue penetrated Ashleigh's silent panic. "It wouldn't do to have you dying before the ascendancy. You apparently sleep more than you used to."

"Well, yes," Ashleigh said, forcibly calm. "Sick people are known to do so. Is there something I perhaps can do for you this morning or evening, or were you simply longing for the pleasure of my company?"

"Aren't you at all curious what's happened to the hirelings you sent in first?" Meredith asked.

"Not particularly," lied Ashleigh. "You can't kill Reilonde, you know. I'm not sure anyone can."

"Then you're a greater fool than I realized," said Meredith. "If she hasn't drowned - and I can't imagine why not, given her apparent lack of magical proficiency - she'll never get through the barricade."

"Did you get her dagger?" Ashleigh asked.

Meredith opened his mouth, then shut it.

"You didn't, did you," said Ashleigh. He clucked his tongue. "Tsk. Well, whatever you're going to do, I suggest you do it quickly."

"The first sensible thing you've said," said Meredith. He turned to someone Ashleigh could not see. "Go get her. Yes, all of you. Don't let her get past you this time." He looked back at Ashleigh as movement swirled away behind him. "Quite an odd thing has happened, you see. I really have no idea why. Perhaps you'll be able to enlighten me."

Ashleigh remained silent. The slight smirk on the vampire's face betokened nothing good. He couldn't imagine who was meant by _her, _since it obviously wasn't Reilonde. Unless she wasalready dead, which Ashleigh still refused to believe, Meredith could not expect to send his ten or so minions after her and have them return. And he surely must not mean the hypothetical virgin they'd discussed earlier, because that wouldn't take more than one...

There was a commotion from the other end of the cell block. Ashleigh listened to the sound of swearing and hissing and the occasional thump. Squinting into the darkness outside his cell, he saw the group of vampires return, their white hands and faces almost glowing against their dark rags. They completely surrounded whatever they were dragging.

"Now, little brother, pay close attention," said Meredith. Ashleigh reluctantly returned his eyes to the vampire. A sense of vague dread was growing on him. Meredith held up a pink glass bottle in one hand. It was larger than the vials Ashleigh used for his potions. Condensation beaded on the slick surface.

"This will restore your magicka," said Meredith. "Just a little, mind you. Enough for one of your larger fire spells, or two small ones. I think you'll know better than to try and kill me with it." He tossed the bottle between the bars. Ashleigh caught it, fumbled it, and almost dropped it. He finally managed to get a grip on it with both hands, and never mind the risk, never mind that it was probably a trick, he felt the tingle of magicka from the bottle and he thumbed loose the cork and drank it all in one gulp.

The returning sizzle of power through his veins was better than strong liquor, but it wasn't enough. He could _feel _that it wasn't enough. He could hold ten times as much and he wanted it so very badly -

Meredith's hands began to glow red as he raised them. "Step away from the door," he said. Ashleigh retreated back to the corner of the cell as one of the subordinate vampires unlocked the door. The others approached in a struggling mass, punching and kicking, and a gap opened long enough for them to violently shove a single figure into the cell and slam the door.

The vampire who stayed to lock it again wasn't fast enough. The newcomer lashed out with a handful of claws, catching him across the throat, and he dissolved in a spray of black blood and ashes. One of the others jabbed between the bars with a short spear, forcing the creature back, and another one retrieved the key. Ashleigh was aware peripherally of Meredith watching with keen amusement, shoulders twitching as he chuckled silently.

"I'd do it now if I were you, Ashleigh," he said. "She's very thirsty. We haven't let her drink yet, you see."

Ashleigh frowned without comprehension, and then the stranger turned to face him and he was looking at a tawny Khajiit.

She was tall and rangy, but still conspicuously female. The ragged remains of a laced leather tunic and trousers left little to the imagination. Dark blood matted her short fur in several places. The ends of her ears, now flattened tight to her head, were black. A black-ringed tail lashed at her ankles above her bare feet. As he watched, her short muzzle wrinkled back from yellow fangs that were just marginally longer than normal. A growl rose up from deep in her throat as she glared at Ashleigh. Her eyes were bright crimson around their narrow pupils, glowing faintly in the dark.

A single strip of rawhide with two green beads was still tangled in her stiff mane.

"No," breathed Ashleigh.

"Oh, quite," said Meredith. "I really have no idea what brought about the transformation. Bizarre, isn't it?"

"You prayed to Sheogorath for help," said Ashleigh quietly. "That's what you did, isn't it?"

The Khajiiti vampire's ears flickered up and down. The sloping brow wrinkled as she stared at him in apparent confusion.

"Ah, that explains it," said Meredith. "The Madgod is known to be fickle, and your friend is under the aegis of Lord Molag Bal now. I really am not sure whether this parting gift was meant as a blessing or a curse."

"Ashleigh Prideaux," said the Khajiit, as if she had only just remembered the name. She stood with her back pressed to the bars, as if she were unwilling to come any closer. "He did not answer this one's prayer. Nothing has changed, and this one - " The wordless hand gesture was almost familiar. "She has become a monster."

"Nothing has changed." Ashleigh smiled sadly. "You really are Juggles-One-Dozen."

"Juggles-One-Dozen." Clawed hands tightened around the bars behind her as she held her hands down at hip level. "Ah'drazzanaja has been called that. She remembers. Yes." The Khajiit turned her head, ears flickering up and down again as she stared at Meredith. "She remembers, too, how she came to have this terrible thirst. But let her get her hands on this scrawny white thing and - "

"And nothing," said Meredith. "I have not fed in more than a month, worm." The Khajiit snarled back at him. "Whereas _you _have never fed at all, and are still wounded besides. When the first hysterical burst of strength wears off, you'll start eating yourself from the inside out. Your already-tenuous grasp on sanity will be completely lost." He turned his attention to Ashleigh. "I suggest you kill her before that happens, if you want to save yourself, little brother."

"You think it will ruin me to kill an insane vampire in self-defense?" Ashleigh sniffed, resisting the urge to expend all his magicka in one futile burst of flame. He kept the rage burning slow and deep, like a banked fire. "Your own grasp on sanity may be a bit tenuous, Meredith."

"Not at all," his brother assured him. "For you see, all of this is your fault. _You _brought her here, did you not? _You _sent her in here to kill me. The blame for everything that has resulted from that lies squarely at your door, Ashleigh. If you kill her now, you will be a greater monster than I am. And you can't have survived two years of consumptive porphyria without a great will to live. I know you _that _well."

"I see," said Ashleigh. He could see the way forward. It seemed to lead downward into the dark, but hadn't he known that for two years? "And what do you say, Juggles?"

The Khajiit lowered her head, ears flat. A shudder ran through her entire body, but she did not let go of the bars. At the end of it her tail hung limp.

"This one would not harm her friend," she said, slowly and distinctly. "Do what you will."

Ashleigh walked forward carefully, without making any sudden movements, until he was two feet away from the Khajiit. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, He heard her stifle a growl.

"It will have to be by touch," he said. "I don't have enough for anything else."

"This one understands," said Juggles. "Quickly, please."

Ashleigh laid one hand on the Khajiit's shoulder. Her skin was cold under her thin coat. He took a deep breath, called up the magicka, and cast the most powerful healing spell he knew. Blue light spiraled up around Juggles-One-Dozen's body. Blood dried up and drifted away like dust, her fur smoothing out as the magic took effect.

Prideaux stepped back and turned to look at his brother, who was watching with wide red eyes.

"Meredith, you don't know me at all," Ashleigh said. "I'm not afraid to die."

"You'll change your mind," snapped the vampire. He tossed another potion bottle between the bars. Ashleigh caught it. When he looked up again, the hall outside the cell was empty. The clinging, scratching aura that was Meredith's magicka signature retreated rapidly until he was no longer able to perceive it.

Juggles-One-Dozen snarled something half-inaudible and spat out toward the hallway. Ashleigh went to sit on the bench, feeling rather limp. His magicka was exhausted again. It was not a feeling he enjoyed. His head pounded, and his tongue felt thick, as if he were hung over. He held up the potion bottle and looked at it.

"I don't suppose you could pull the bars apart?" he said.

"This one could get the door open, even," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "But then what?" She folded her arms as she slid down to sit on the floor. "You have not the Khajiiti sense of smell, this one forgets. The Master has left four guards at the end of the hall. And this one's strength is waning, friend Ashleigh. A vampire can go without blood a long time, after the first time. This one has never _had _the first time. We would not get far."

"Blood would restore your strength," Ashleigh said. He coughed idly. "Would it not?"

"Do not even think it," said Juggles. "This one would kill you. She has not the control. Besides, you are infected, yes? It is why you have the dry cough and the fevers. Your blood is no good." Juggles sighed. "Your brother torments this one as well as you. This one could get to the other humans who are here. She can smell them, hear their hearts beating. But she would kill them, too. And if you let her, you would fall, as _he_ wishes. Is it not so?"

"Yes," said Ashleigh. "I'm afraid it is."

"You should have killed her, Ashleigh Prideaux. It would have been less cruel." She said it without rancor, shivering again.

"What about Reilonde?" Ashleigh asked.

"This one is afraid friend Reilonde has drowned," said Juggles.

"Not she. I was using life detection when I sneaked in here. I saw a living body down on the next level," said Ashleigh. "If she was going to drown, she would have done it before then. A person can't go without air for more than a few minutes."

"Suppose she lives," said Juggles-One-Dozen. Her black-tipped ears were at half-mast now. "She might, perhaps, be able to save this one and not die herself. But how shall we reach her? There are still the guards."

"This isn't enough magicka to burn them both," said Ashleigh, tapping the bottle idly against his thigh. "And that's assuming I could hit them. They're fast. I need to cast an area effect spell and that needs at _least _two hundred." He eyed the increasingly drooping Khajiit thoughtfully. "Do you know any destruction spells?"

"No," said Juggles.

"Then you'll have to learn one," said Ashleigh. "You're a vampire now. Your magicka is at least double what it was before, and it will regenerate quickly, because you're a Shadow-born and not a miserable Atronach like me. I'll teach you."

"What good will that do?"

"It might get us out of here," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "And if we can get to Reilonde, it might get us a chance to kill Meredith."

Juggles-One-Dozen's eyes glowed. "This one will try."


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: I'm not just exaggerating for plot convenience here – well, not much. If the player character becomes a vampire, it's ridiculous how much better you get at spells and how much higher level you can cast them. _

Chapter 20

It took Ashleigh Prideaux two hours to teach a simple fireball to Ah'drazzanaja, also called Juggles-One-Dozen (he found it much easier to think of her by a Khajiiti name now, even a lengthy and difficult one). A lot of that time was spent explaining the concept of magicka, and how to sense it, and in trying to get Juggles through the very necessary sensory expansion to effect the channeling of magicka through the body and out into the productive spell. He seemed to be running a fever again, which affected his concentration somewhat.

"It is no use, friend Ashleigh," she said at one point. They were both sitting on the bench by then, a careful couple of feet between them. Juggles's tail twitched. "This one simply cannot feel it."

Ashleigh sighed, then coughed. This seemed to go on longer than he had expected. "Well, I've been trying to avoid this, but it's what my father did with me the first time and I feel it might work. Sometimes the only way to learn a spell is to have it used on you."

Juggles looked at him in silence for a moment. Then she grinned. Ashleigh felt almost palpable relief. She was much more recognizable when she smiled.

"Of course it is," she said. "This one has been exposed to similar teaching methods in, admittedly, somewhat different subjects. Do try not to reduce this one to ashes, yes?"

"I'll use quite a small charge, and I'll be able to heal you," said Ashleigh, secretly thankful for an excuse to use his one precious potion. He swallowed it gratefully. The cold tingle was pleasant on his raw throat. "Are you ready?"

Juggles made a sweeping hand gesture. Ashleigh turned toward her, forced back all but a tiny pittance of magicka – and that was hard, very hard indeed – and let go a tiny fireball from one raised hand. Juggles snarled as it hit her in the shoulder, singing the fur black and then blasting it to dust in a way that would be completely impossible on an ordinary Khajiit. She turned her face quickly away.

"I'm sorry," said Ashleigh Prideaux.

"You should not be," Juggles said as if nothing had happened, raising her head. "Although if you would be so good as to heal this one - "

"Yes, of course." It took most of the rest of his remaining magicka, but the fur grew back in salutary fashion. He wiped away a thin sweat from his forehead. Juggles pointed a clawed finger at his nose. The fireball that followed blasted his eyebrows off; he shut his eyes tight enough to avoid losing those, too.

The healing charge hit a moment later. He felt each spell raise his magicka, but only by a tiny fraction.

Prideaux opened his eyes as he coughed. Juggles was grinning again.

"Ha," she said. "This one is a faster learner than you thought." She lowered her head so that she could look up at him through her lashes. "She would wager you are now thinking of teaching her some other destruction spells by the same method."

Ashleigh snorted. "I assure you, I am not a vindictive man." He looked at Juggles' suddenly broad and toothy smile. "Oh, very well, I admit that was a lie."

"Your plan is for this one to cast the spells at you until you regain your magicka, yes?" asked Juggles. "Atronach-sign magic. But if I cast this same fireball fifty times in a row, those on guard will come to see what we are doing."

"Closer to a hundred times, I'm afraid," Ashleigh said. He coughed again for a few seconds. "All right. I'll try an upper-echelon health drain and see if you can pick that up. It makes hardly any noise, and it'll probably hurt you less than the fireball."

"This one would not like to explain to Reilonde that she has accidentally killed you," said Juggles.

He shrugged one shoulder. "I'll teach you a greater heal first."

Juggles picked up the greater heal almost as quickly as she had the lesser one. Ashleigh sighed again.

"You know, it took me _years _to learn that spell."

"Do not envy this one too much," said the Khajiit dryly. Where her shirt was torn, her ribs were prominent, visible through the fur and muscle.

"God's thumbs. I really am sorry." Ashleigh looked at her, stricken. "And it is, after all, my fault that you're here."

"You did not shove this one through the door, Ashleigh Prideaux," said Juggles-One-Dozen. She had both feet tucked up under her on the bench. "She came of her own free will, yes."

"Whatever you want from me, you've a right to it," Ashleigh said. "It's true now, and it'll be true if we ever get out of here. So you remember, Juggles."

"Teach her the other spell, Master Warlock," said Juggles.

The magicka he had regained from Juggles' healing practice allowed him to sustain the health drain for a little over a second before he ran out. He began to cough as the last dram of magicka bled out. The ribbon of red light that stretched between him and the Khajiit shuddered, broke, and vanished. The fit went on for almost a minute as he tried to smother the sound with his sleeve. The cloth came away spotted darkly. He stared at it for a second without comprehension, then remembered what he was doing. He looked up quickly.

"Are you all right?" he asked the Khajiiti vampire. She stood a few feet away, and he wasn't sure how she had come there.

"This one is fine, thank you," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "But her friend Ashleigh is not. You are bleeding inside."

Ashleigh opened his mouth to ask how she could tell. Then he shut it. Her eyes were glowing slightly in the dim cell. It wasn't pain that had made her move.

_She doesn't trust herself close to me when there's blood._

"I've been feeling worse since I woke up in here," he said slowly. "I wonder what Meredith did while I was asleep?"

_He could've taken blood or given me more of his, and healed me afterward, and I'd never know._ He shook his head quickly.

"There's no point in worrying about it now. Do you think you can cast the spell?"

"Yes," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "She supposes there is no other way."

"None whatsoever, Miss," Ashleigh said firmly. The Khajiit actually giggled at his formal address as she raised one hand. The red ribbon shot out, waving slightly in the air as it sought a target.

"You have to want it to hit m – _aargh. _Yes. Good." Ashleigh stared down at the red banner now anchored to the middle of his chest, trying not to cough again. It seemed more difficult than it should be, harder to ignore the strength fading from his limbs as the spell slowly drained his life away, but if he concentrated he could feel magicka at the other end of it.

_Yes. Finally. _He reached out and drew it to himself. Power rushed down the link like water through a culvert. He kept on pulling until all of it was gone, sucking down the magic like a drunk at his last bottle of wine. Even then, he only let go because he had no choice. The ribbon faded as Juggles ran out of magicka.

Ashleigh wiped absently at his clogged nose, slouching down against the wall. His hand came away bloody.

"That's up to half, anyway," he said thickly. "We'll do it again when your magicka has recovered."

"First we will heal you," she said. Ashleigh was actually about to object when she added, surprisingly cheerfully, "You would not torment a thirsty vampire, this one is persuaded."

"I – no, of course not." There was no arguing with that. And anyway, a healing spell would restore his magicka as well, just not as quickly or as much.

It was not a long wait. It was probably less than five minutes before Juggles was able to heal him, and five more after that before she could cast the damage spell again. He was fully concentrated on imbibing as much magicka as possible when he became aware that the room seemed to be receding from him for some reason, and then it got very dark.

"Wake up, friend Ashleigh. This one has healed you again." Something sharp prodded at his shoulder. He was disappointed when he realized the voice was not Reilonde's. Then memory reasserted itself along with his headache. He sat up, stifling a groan. At least his magicka was entire now. That had concerned him far more than the fact that he hadn't eaten in a day or so.

"How long?" he asked.

"Not very long," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "But this one will not be good for much if we do not go soon." She said it matter-of-factly. Ashleigh, looking at her closely, thought her ribs were already sharper where they showed.

_No time to waste._

"Do you still think you can get the door open?" he asked. He levered himself upright, resisting the urge to press his heated face against the stone.

"Oh, yes," said Juggles, and extended her right index claw. "_That _takes no vampiric strength. Not for this one."

Prideaux watched as she went to work on the lock. After a few seconds it clicked sharply. He winced. The sound must surely carry down the hall. He followed her out into the hall as quickly as he could manage. It was perhaps fifty yards long, lined with cells and ending in a wooden door at one end and an archway out into the main hall at the other.

Four vampires stood in the archway, staring back at them. One shouted down the hall.

"You get back in that cell!"

"Master said we weren't to hurt him," hissed another one.

"Then let's kill the other one. She bit my nose."

"Right," agreed the second vampire, and the four of them became a rapidly approaching blur.

Ashleigh spread his arms, braced one leg, and cast his spell. A crackling wall of fire filled the hallway in front of him. Through its searing light he could just glimpse the vampires skidding to a halt, trying to turn and run, but they couldn't outrun the spell. It swept past and through them with the roar of a great wind. Not one had time to scream. The wall of flames traveled a good twenty feet further before it spent itself. Ashleigh breathed a small sigh of relief that it had not reached the main hall, then had to lean against the wall when he felt suddenly dizzy.

_Out of magicka again._

Juggles-One-Dozen looked at the gently settling ashes. She grinned.

"Ashleigh Prideaux," she said. "Shall we do something for these others before we go? I would like for them to be somewhere else."

"Yes, of course. I'll look for the key." Ashleigh stumbled forward and nudged an ash pile with his toe until something clinked. Fishing with two fingers, he managed to retrieve a rusty key of no particular design. "See? You won't have to pick any more locks. Let's see which ones have people in them..."

"Those." Juggles pointed without looking. Ashleigh turned to see five white and frightened faces peering from within five adjacent cells. "This one will make herself scarce while you do it."

"Er, thank you," said Ashleigh, but the Khajiit had vanished. He went to unlock the first door, which seemed to belong to Eustacian Antippus. "Hello, sir. I'm Ashleigh Prideaux. Do you remember?"

"Of course," said Antippus.

"The two guards are dead. Can all of you walk?"

"Yes," said Antippus. "Some not very quickly, though." He stepped out of the cell and watched Ashleigh unlock the second one. The middle-aged and haggard woman inside it looked at Antippus as he did so.

"I think if you go_ now, _you'll probably make it," Ashleigh said. "My brother will be keeping his remaining offspring near him, I suspect. I had a satchel when I came in. D'you have any idea where they'll have put it?"

"Check the storage room down there," said Antippus, jerking a thumb at the wooden door. His other arm was around his wife, who had silently buried her face in his shoulder. "For that matter, I'd like to see if my sword is there. I've not used it in ten years, but I'd like to have it by me."

"Yes, of course." Ashleigh was on his third door now. A younger man, another Imperial by the heavy bone structure to which his scrawny flesh clung, watched him impatiently. He wore the remains of a dark suit of linen with a blue hood.

"Good," he said. "Maybe my armor will be there. If we make it, and I can get to the Legion, I'll send help for you, Master Prideaux. They've killed a legionnaire. And Ignatius was a friend of mine."

"I'd leave the armor, Herodius," said Eustacian. "It'll slow you down too much. If we make it, you can come back for it. The monsters won't do anything to it."

Herodius, now out in the hall, nodded reluctantly. Ashleigh got the fourth door the rest of the way open. A girl, perhaps sixteen (though her gauntness probably made her younger), watched him with large eyes of a deep and brilliant green. Her hair was a very pale blond, marking her as a member of his own race. She wore only a flimsy shift, probably her petticoat.

"Ah," he said. "You must be the virgin. You have no idea how glad I'll be to see you gone from this place, Miss." She edged past him, staring at this apparently deranged stranger with deep ambivalence. He went on to the fifth door. The resident had probably a large man before blood loss and near-starvation had ruined him. His hair was tied back in a dirty braid and he had the scars of long shield-bearing on his left arm.

The man clenched his fists around the bars of the door as Ashleigh unlocked it. He managed not to slam it open on his way out.

"I want my axe," he said. "Or a club or something. A weapon."

"A lot of good it did you when they caught you, Bjarn," said Herodius. "But I want my sword, too. Lead the way, Master Prideaux."

"Yes, of course." Ashleigh went to the wooden door. It opened to the same key as the others. He let the prisoners crowd past him to retrieve what they thought best.

"Give the man his satchel, Nesima," said Eustacian as he came out again. He was buckling a sword belt. His wife clung to his arm, clearly unwilling to let go. The girl, who now had a gingham dress on over the petticoat, handed Prideaux the leather satchel.

"Thank Julianos," said Ashleigh. "And thank you, Miss. Be off with you all. For the gods' sake, don't tarry."

"Won't forget this," said Bjarn the Nord, thumping him on the shoulder and almost knocking him over. Then the five of them were off down the hall and out of sight, moving as quickly and quietly as they could.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"They're gone," said Ashleigh, when he could no longer hear the footsteps. He had lost no time in swallowing one of his homemade potions. It was considerably more satisfying than the paltry excuse for a restorative Meredith had left him. The increasing pain in his chest even dulled for a moment. "I hope they make it."

"Probably they will, friend Ashleigh." Juggles-One-Dozen faded into view beside him. "Let us go on now, yes?"

"You know the way to the ramp?" he asked.

"But of course. Follow this one, and try to walk as quiet as you can. It will not matter much. If they are near, they will hear your heart beating."

"Hold on, I almost forgot," Ashleigh said. He went back into the storage room. There was food on a shelf there: a stale loaf of bread and a very hard cheese. He shoved them into the satchel. "Reilonde will be hungry." He wasn't feeling particularly hungry himself, even after so long. Besides, he would rather die than eat in front of Juggles-One-Dozen at this moment. He managed to fit a worn blanket in as well, turning the satchel into a very full, very lumpy, but much quieter burden. "I'm sorry, I couldn't find your dagger," he told Juggles.

"It does not matter," she said. "This one's claws are longer now."

He followed the Khajiit out and down the hall.

The great hallway was empty, still lit only by its distant torches. It appeared that Eustacian had made serious inroads into the ash while Ashleigh was unconscious, but the end near Meredith's great chamber was still covered with gray drifts. Ashleigh could not bring himself to look that way for more than an instant as Juggles led him through a narrow, doorless entry into another little hall. Here it was pitch dark, and Juggles had to slow down so that Ashleigh could feel his way along. No one seemed to see them. No one shouted or hissed. And Ashleigh heard no footsteps, although since he couldn't even hear the footsteps of Juggles-One-Dozen in front of him that probably didn't mean much. The Khajiit's tail brushed his knees from time to time, and he heard his own wheezing breath. Did he really breathe that loudly all of the time? He trusted not. The urge to cough was like an unscratchable itch.

A furry hand reached back to stop him once. He froze, trying not to make a noise. The case must be serious indeed for her to risk touching him. And indeed, if he listened he could hear something stir the ashes outside in the great hallway, as if someone were running very lightly through them.

After a moment the sound faded. Juggles tugged at his sleeve, and they went on.

_Someone must've heard the shouting, _Ashleigh thought. _And when they find we're not there, they'll look for us. We'll just have to get to Reilonde first._

As if she had had a similar idea, Juggles sped up in front of him. He did his best to keep up. It still seemed an age before he felt a change in the air in front of him and reached out and felt a hard wooden surface. A moment's groping identified it as a crate stacked on top of another crate. His shove did not budge it.

"We have found the barricade," Juggles whispered. "This one can see. Stand to one side and she will uncover one door."

"Can you?" Ashleigh asked.

"She must," said Juggles simply. Ashleigh edged over to the left, out of her way. It was unfortunately certain that a very weak vampire was still stronger than he was at present, and he dared not risk a night eye spell yet. It would draw Meredith's attention instantly, much more quickly than a cough. Still, he muffled the necessary outburst with his sleeve as he listened to the scrape and scuffle of the Khajiit moving crates and, if he was any judge, furniture. (Spots danced in front of his eyes for a moment; he shook them irritably away.) During the occasional pause he was sure she was resting against the wall, but he did not hear her breathe.

_And don't you dare forget whose fault that is, Ashleigh Prideaux._

The creak of the door opening seemed horrendously loud when it happened.

"Let me go first," Ashleigh rasped. He heard no objection to this, so he edged forward through the opening. He felt along the slimy wall with one hand – it seemed damper here – until he felt the ground begin to slope downward. Sudden cold on the toe of his right shoe said he had found the water's edge. He heard the door close behind him.

"Reilonde?" he said into the darkness. "It's Ashleigh Prideaux."

No answer. He heard no sound of breathing.

"Reilonde," he said again. With the door shut, he was emboldened to raise his voice slightly. "Mer, you had better recognize my voice. You played me a nasty trick, which I fully intend to reciprocate as soon as we are out of this horrid place." He paused for breath. "Oh, and I've brought you something to eat." He coughed quietly. It hurt. "Juggles-One-Dozen is with me," he said. "In case you didn't recognize her. I'm afraid my brother Meredith has made her a vampire. He's engineered a faster-acting strain of porphyric hemophilia, you see." He listened hopefully. Was that a distant slosh? "Reilonde?"

The sloshing grew more distinct. Water was slopping about as something disturbed it from beneath. A long minute after that, he heard the sound of something scrambling and flopping at the water's edge. He groped fearlessly toward the sound and almost bit through his tongue when a hand seized his ankle.

"An you want to live, you'd better not be lying about the food," said a voice from around floor-level. The piercing soprano was showing sings of tremor and wear, but it was very familiar and very, very welcome. Ashleigh fell to his knees as she released him and reached out to put his arms around her, never mind that she was soaking wet. The dwemer gauntlet almost crushed his ribs as she returned the embrace fiercely. He felt water pouring out of it and soaking the knees of his robe, but he didn't care.

"Easy," he advised her as she began to tighten her grip again. "I am grown a bit more fragile of late."

"So y'are," said Reilonde, letting him go gently. "Did I hear you say that monster is your _brother?_"

"I'm afraid so," said Ashleigh. "Apparently I made an incorrect estimate of the depths to which he was willing to sink. For that I _am _sorry. Are you cold? Here's a blanket." He drew the musty wad of fabric out of the satchel and held it out. She took it out of his hand, releasing a smell of dust and mothballs as she wrapped it around herself.

"Thank ye kindly. 'Tis bitter cold down in the water." Ashleigh levered himself carefully upright against the wall as he listened to Reilonde getting up. "Juggles, where are you, m'dear?"

"This one is here, friend Reilonde," said the Khajiit's voice, which seemed to be making a valiant effort to sound chipper in the face of advancing weakness. "Please do not come close. She is very thirsty."

"My blood's no good to her," Ashleigh explained into the silence. "I'm infected myself. It's why I've been ill."

"_You _have the porphyry?" Reilonde asked.

"For two years and more," Ashleigh said. "Meredith wanted me to become a vampire, I gather, but that's not what happened. Something to do with his new strain."

There was another long silence. Ashleigh half-choked himself trying not to cough again.

"Will it hurt Juggles if we kill him?" Reilonde asked finally.

"No," said Ashleigh. "Nor will it cure her."

Ashleigh did not recognize the tongue in which Reilonde swore this time. "'Tis sorry I am, Juggles," she said afterward. "Had I seen that n'wah coming - "

"This one did not see him either," said Juggles. "Let us forget it, my dear."

"Come, then," said Reilonde. "We need you to be strong if we're to find this fetcher and kill him – oh."

Ashleigh gathered that Reilonde had put out a hand and encountered fur.

"This one is grown cold since last you saw her," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

"Forget it," said Reilonde, with customary aplomb. "It matters not a whit." A firm thump was probably Reilonde patting Juggles on the back. "Take what you need, and be quick about it."

Ashleigh listened anxiously to the slight intake of breath that was the only indication of two fangs sinking into Reilonde's throat. A moment later the silence was punctuated by a growl, quickly stifled. Perhaps half a minute after that, he heard a stuttering footstep, almost a stagger. Reilonde breathed softly in the dark. Two eyes glowed red for a moment, then subsided.

"'Tis not enough," Reilonde's voice said. "It cannot be." Ashleigh was unable to detect any change in its strength or tone.

"This one suspects there will never be enough," said Juggles, more lightly than the words deserved. "But she feels much better. Thank you, friend Reilonde."

"You came back for me, did y'not? And you, Master Warlock, though I think you were a damned fool to do it."

"I probably am," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "Meredith certainly seems to think so." Now that it was dark, and he was listening more closely to sounds, it seemed to him that his voice was weaker than before.

"D'you think you can kill your brother?" Reilonde's voice seemed to be moving away from him. He heard her tap the door with an armored knuckle, as if testing.

"I doubt it," Ashleigh said. "I could have before, but now he is considerably more powerful than he was when last I knew him."

"'Tis not what I mean," Reilonde said.

Ashleigh laughed outright, which made him cough, then choke. He muffled the sound as best he cold with his sleeve, but it seemed to echo off the water. When he could speak again he said,

"If you had lived in High Rock, you would not ask. It's rather more likely that one will be killed by one's relations than by anybody else. My father was poisoned by his brother, you know." He had to pause for breath. "Had Meredith shown me a particle of fraternal affection at any point in our lives, things might be otherwise. He did not. Nor I him, I suppose."

"I see," said Reilonde.

"How _did_ you survive?" Ashleigh asked. "I'll eat my own robe if you took that gauntlet off, and it can't have been a short walk along the floor underwater."

Reilonde laughed shortly. "Nay, I could not leave Wraithguard. But I do have an amulet I bought in Vvardenfell. Got tired of being tossed out of Telvanni towers into the ocean, y'see."

"I can see how you might," agreed Ashleigh. "You'd better eat something - "

"Someone's coming," said Reilonde sharply.

"This one hears them," said Juggles. Ashleigh, whose hearing was neither merish nor Khajiit, heard nothing whatsoever until someone shoved a crate back against the door. There was a sound of muffled swearing outside, and further sounds of crates being moved about.

"They seem to be rebuilding their barricade," he said after a moment.

"Ha," said Reilonde. "Let 'em. We can get out again. And you were saying something about food, were you not?"

"Indeed I was. It's not very _good _food, but at least it's edible. Hold on, I'll risk a light now that they know we're in here." He cast a small light spell. A golden glow sprang up around them, sourceless and brighter than a candle. Reilonde, though her long braid was soggy and her clothes hung heavy with water beneath her wrapped blanket, was still her lean, scarred self. Deep shadow hid her empty eye socket as she looked at him, frowning.

Juggles-One-Dozen, on the other hand, was hardly the same Khajiit. She seemed to have put on weight in mere seconds, fleshing out her breasts and hips, hiding her ribs. Her coat shone with health. She could have passed for a living person, except for her red eyes.

Ashleigh held out the loaf and the wheel of cheese. Reilonde took them both, broke a chunk off of each, and handed these back. She was still frowning.

"Here," she said. "An I know you at all, you've not eaten since last I saw you. You'll need your strength."

_Such as it is._

"Thank you," said Ashleigh, although the thought of eating held little appeal. "Juggles?"

"This one needs nothing," said the Khajiit.

"All right." He turned back to Reilonde. "It's dry as dust. You'll want something to wash it down with, and not water you've been living in for a day, either. Hold on." He dug through the satchel one-handed until he found a vial whose contents were a bright, vivid green. "Have this one. It's a fatigue restorative."

"Thank ye kindly," said Reilonde, accepting the vial with her left hand. "And what about you?"

"I've got another one," Ashleigh said. He went to sit against the cold, slimy wall. "They've never done anything for me, but the ingredients are cheap. It helps me stay in practice."

"'Tis not surprising," Reilonde said, fortunately after swallowing. She came to sit beside him, chewing earnestly. "Fatigue that comes with the porphyry won't answer to potions," she finished. Juggles-One-Dozen came and knelt gracefully in front of them, hands on her knees.

"True," Ashleigh said, struck by this. "You'd think I'd have thought of it, wouldn't you? But until Meredith decided to be clever, the disease was curable. So I was sure that wasn't it." He tried to pause for breath unobtrusively, but Reilonde was watching him sideways with her single eye. "Besides, I never turned into a vampire. I've no idea why, and no more has Meredith." He paused again. "So he told me, at least."

Reilonde did not relinquish her death-grip on the bread and cheese, but she was looking directly at him now.

"Ashleigh," she said, in a tone that brooked no denial. "What has he done?"

Prideaux looked back at her. "I don't know," he said. "He drained my strength and my magicka. It was a long time before I woke up." He shrugged one shoulder. "I make it eight days at least until the ascendancy. He won't have done anything that'll kill me before then."

"Then eat," Reilonde said in the same tone. Ashleigh tried not think of maiden aunts. It was too bizarre under the circumstances.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said meekly.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

"What will we do now, Friend Ashleigh?" asked the Khajiiti vampire after a while. Ashleigh swallowed the last of his fatigue restorative and tucked away the empty vial.

"Well, Ah'drazzanaja," he began, then stopped as she snickered. "I pronounced it incorrectly, didn't I."

"Perhaps you should just call this one Juggles," she said. "This one is not so changed as all that, she hopes."

"No, of course not," Ashleigh perjured himself without a second thought. He felt the warmth of Reilonde's shoulder even through her increasingly damp blanket as she sat close behind him.

_Gods, but I'm cold. _He had to restrain a shiver. There was a fine sweat on his forehead as well. _Still feverish._

"As I see it, our choices are thus," he said. "First, we can wait in here for the next seven days, or until Meredith is ready to do whatever he's planning to do. No doubt he'll throw some sort of food in here at some point." Two piercing stares plus one low growl indicated what the others thought of this idea. "I didn't say that was what I _wanted _to do, you know." He paused to breathe. "Second, we can - or at least, I assume the two of you can – remove the barricade, leave this ruin, and deliver Meredith up to Imperial justice. That may happen regardless, if the humans we released have reached the surface."

"D'ye not think he'll be after you again?" Reilonde asked. She ate slowly, probably because of the taste, but she had not stopped nibbling continuously as Ashleigh spoke.

"I'm quite sure that he will," said Prideaux. "Which brings us to our third choice." He went on deliberately, breathing carefully in between short sentences. "We can rest here until we're feeling well enough to go on. We can remove the barricade. We can destroy the remaining six or so of Meredith's lackeys. And we can do our level best to destroy him, as well."

"This one wants her philtre back, and her shield potion," said Juggles firmly. "And if he does not have them, she wants him dead. In fact, she would like for that to happen anyway."

"If we leave him alive, other lives than ours may be lost," said Reilonde.

"Still willing to save strangers?" he asked her.

"And see friends perish? Nay," said Reilonde. "I will lay my hand on evil where I find it. Have I not said so? But if you ask it of me, I will leave this place with you and never return. 'Tis you who must decide, Ashleigh Prideaux."

"Meredith is my brother," Ashleigh said. "I can't leave him roaming through the world as he is now. If anyone's going to stop him, it should be me." He paused again for breath. "And I am not likely to improve through waiting this time, I suspect. Let us go as soon as Reilonde is able."

The Altmer sniffed. "I'm able _now, _y'daft mage_._"

"Nonsense," said Ashleigh. "You just spent more than a day underwater - "

"Nay, I spent most of it out on this spit of stone we're on," said Reilonde. "I dove back in when I heard the door open."

" - Got yourself soaking wet, anyway," Ashleigh said. "Went without food all that time -"

"I have gone longer, I assure you."

"- And lost blood which no healing spell can immediately replace."

"'Twas precious little," Reilonde rejected this at once. Ashleigh looked at her with one raised eyebrow.

"Really, friend Ashleigh," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "It was not very much." He glared at the Khajiit. Her ears were up and quite still, with just the faintest betraying quiver of amusement.

"Juggles, you told me you didn't think you could lay hands on a living person, for fear you'd kill them," he said.

"A sick person, or one very afraid, yes," said Juggles patiently. "Did this one not tell you she is a monster? But the blood of Nerevar reborn is richer than an ordinary mortal's. See how this one has changed? Almost she might be alive." She stroked both hands through her tangled mane, dislodging the bit of rawhide that still clung there. She looked at it with a mournful sigh, then tied it carefully around her neck so that the green beads hung in front. "Almost."

"Very well," said Ashleigh. "Since we're all so eager to be at it, I suppose we'd best be going." He climbed painfully to his feet, brushing crumbs from his robe. Reilonde, who had risen easily, watched him with a narrowed eye.

"You'd better stand back while we get the door open," she said. "Then y'can spellfry anyone who tries to stop us." She gave herself a brisk drying with the wool blanket, little effect as this had on her wet clothing, and then dropped it.

"Doing it a bit too brown, Madam," Ashleigh said with dignity. "Besides, you'd be in my line of fire."

"Suit yourself," she said. "But cast your life detection first, aye? The right-hand door, I think."

"This one agrees," said Juggles-One-Dozen. The two women put their shoulders to the heavy wood door, and Ashleigh cast the spell quickly and squeezed in between them to add his weight, manfully striving to stifle another oncoming coughing fit. The door creaked and complained against the pressure from one side and the weight from the other, but after a few seconds' heaving it began to give. Things on the other side of it were heard to scrape loudly across the stone floor as they slid.

"See anything yet?" Reilonde said into his left ear.

"No," said Ashleigh, still bending his meager strength against the door. He was privately certain that the six survivors of Meredith's once-large family of minions were now remaining as close to Meredith as possible. Half-mad with thirst they might be, but surely not to the exclusion of _any _desire to survive.

"Enough," said Reilonde. "I think we can get out now."

Ashleigh stood thankfully back, panting and coughing. "Still no one," he managed to gasp out. Juggles-One-Dozen peered around the door's edge through the gap they had made, then clambered out over something. There was a sound of further dragging and scraping. A moment later the portal opened all the way, and he saw a hallway lined with crates and a grinning Khajiit holding the door. The expression was visible even through the fog of life detection.

"After you, friend Ashleigh," she said.

They met with no resistance in the dark hallway or the great main hall. Ashleigh cast his light spell again, defying the darkness now that stealth was impossible. Reilonde looked around at the bare walls

as she stalked down the stone flags. It was hard to tell through the purple mist, but the gesture seemed contemptuous.

"Nothing to them, these old forts," she said. "Almost I could miss the old Dwemer places. Though I did not think so the first time I heard a steam centurion hiss behind me, I grant ye."

"I imagine not," Ashleigh agreed. He squinted. He could just make out the signatures of living, or at least animate, beings through the great double doors up ahead. They were not near the portals. "Looks like they won't be trying to keep us out." He could already feel the tearing, scratching presence that was his brother's magicka signature.

"Your brother thinks he is equal to the three of us," said Reilonde. "Never mind his minions."

"Never mind them at all," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "This one wishes to remonstrate with them."

"All right," said Ashleigh. He sighed. "Thank you, both of you."

Reilonde thumped him on the shoulder, albeit more gently than was her wont. Juggles just clicked her tongue.

"Ah, this one works hard for her wages! She thinks perhaps she should demand some sugar after all."

"If you want it, and I live, I will find you some," Ashleigh said, firmly putting aside the question of whether moon sugar would have any effect whatsoever on a vampire. He smiled sadly. "And some new ribbons. After all, you _did _lose them in the course of your employment."

"True, true. This one cannot believe how much her hair has grown already."

Ashleigh tactfully refrained from comment on this, but he _was _closely watching Reilonde. The twitch of her head suggested further explanations might be in order later on. He shrugged slightly, _I have no idea, _and then they were at the great double doors.

"Don't attack Meredith immediately, unless he attacks us first," he said. "I don't care about the others."

"This one is glad to hear it," said Juggles cheerfully, and tugged the door open wide. Ashleigh watched the sudden flow of purple auras.

"They've run up one of the platforms," he said. "To the left. I assume the one still in front of us is Meredith."

"Thank you, friend Ashleigh," said Juggles-One-Dozen, and leaped forward so quickly he could barely track the movement. Juggles the Argonian had been graceful. Juggles the Khajiiti vampire was like a current through fast water. He lost sight of her at once.

The sensation of thorns catching at him was just as strong, but the chamber was not as well-lit as Ashleigh remembered. A few candles had been allowed to go out. He dispelled the life detection, the better to see with his eyes, and tossed back another restorative as he walked forward beside Reilonde.

There was a scream from behind them. Ashleigh coughed at the new weight in his chest, but he still smiled, albeit with no trace of humor.

"You shouldn't have given her your blood," he said. "Six of them won't even slow her down."

"Stop there," said Meredith. Ashleigh shrugged as he halted.

"It's all the same to me," he said. Meredith's velvet tunic was still as immaculate as he had last seen it. His brother's eyes glowed faintly red in the dim room.

"You're not looking so well, my dear fellow," Meredith said unctuously. "Are you ill?" He listened with interest to Reilonde's burst of profanity.

"What have you done?" she demanded at the end of it. Ashleigh felt rather than saw her hand on the hilt of the dagger. Meredith didn't seem impressed.

"You know, I don't believe an Altmer has ever called me a s'wit," he said, raising one thin eyebrow. "You must have traveled in Vvardenfell, Madam."

"Often and often," said Reilonde. Ashleigh opened his mouth to warn her, but it was too late. Her single eye widened as she looked into Meredith's. Then it narrowed sharply. Ashleigh, who had never been particularly devout, prayed silently and earnestly to Julianos at that moment. It was so often true that the strongest of warriors were utterly unable to resist any assault on their inner defenses. She had fought horrifying things – but had any of them had this power? If Meredith were able to control Reilonde's mind, Ashleigh knew neither he nor Juggles could possibly stop her. Not even if he were willing to try.

Finally Meredith twitched. His lip curled in a soundless snarl for just one instant, one second of panicked fury, but Ashleigh knew what he had seen. His knees almost gave out, the relief was that enormous. Reilonde's nostrils flared.

"We see you," she said, in a voice that shredded at Ashleigh's nerves like a bowstring breaking. And gods, he had hardly been able to bear it the first time he looked into that eye and saw Nerevar looking back. _His _reaction had been awe, fascination. Suppose he had been probing for a weak point instead? No doubt the old saint would not look fondly on anyone invading his domain...

"Of course, I cannot possess one already possessed," said Meredith, evidently smoothing out his voice with an effort. "Who exactly is in there with you, may I ask?"

She drew the dagger slowly from its sheath and held it up in the tarnished, blackened gauntlet. The crystal blade sang softly.

"Why, that is Lord Nerevar," said Reilonde. She looked at the blade and smiled, stretching the scars that crossed her lips. "I gather he and I are equally pleased t'make your acquaintance."


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Anybody else have one of those "didn't quite unequip in time" moments in the Morrowind MQ?_

Chapter 23

"Impossible," said Meredith. "The Nerevarine was lost in Akavir years ago."

Reilonde sniffed, as if this were unworthy of response.

"You know, I thought so, too," said Ashleigh. "For some while after we met, I'd no idea who I'd run into. But then, a sage did tell me that I would save one who could destroy me. And I have." He paused ruminatively this time, as well as to breathe. "Twice, actually, if we count your rather pitiful attempt to have me kill Juggles-One-Dozen. And you know, her other prophecy was true twice as well?"

"I gather you believe it concerns me in some way?" Meredith said acidly, but Ashleigh knew he wanted to know.

_Because if I knew a prophecy that said I could defeat him... Ah, if only it were that easy._

"I rather think so," said Ashleigh. "She told me that not every unsound mind is evil, and not every sound mind is good." He coughed, tasting blood on his tongue. "And you're of sound mind, aren't you, Meredith?"

"More so than yourself, if you think this conversation will end in any way other than your ignominious return to a cell," said Meredith. "And why should you bother trying to escape me? You'll never recover if you succeed. You'll keep on getting worse. I doubt whether you'll even live to see the White Grave ascend without my intervention."

"Your intervention? And what will you do?" said Ashleigh. "Inject me with more of your blood while I sleep? I rather think that is the cause of my current inconvenience. Is it not, Meredith?"

"Well," said Meredith, raising both eyebrows. "It appears my little brother has acquired the ability to grasp the obvious. I wanted to know if a further infusion would worsen your symptoms. It seems that it has."

"Unutterable bastard," said Reilonde. Meredith shrugged, as if at a buzzing fly.

"And what exactly did you mean to do, Meredith?" Ashleigh asked. "How _could _you keep me alive through seven more days of this?"

"With fresh blood, of course," said Meredith patiently. "I would think you'd have grasped that by now. Oh, your symptoms are all out of order, but you _do _have porphyric hemophilia. If you hadn't let loose all my cattle, I could've made you a new man by this time tomorrow. I don't know that you would _like _it, but I didn't plan to give you a choice." He made a huffing sound that might charitably be mistaken for a laugh. "I may not be able to corrupt your soul, but I've certainly done well enough with your body, haven't I? Well, perhaps after I've killed your friends you'll come to hate me enough to change that."

Ashleigh found himself suddenly unable to see through the haze of red over his vision. As if from a distance he heard Reilonde say,

"That he might. He's a man of strong feelings, is Ashleigh Prideaux. But ye won't find it so easy to kill me."

"Silly woman, how do you imagine you will stop me?" Meredith looked at her with a faint, superior smile. "Even if you are able to reflect my spells, as you did before, I'm still a child of Molag. You are no more than mer. Do you imagine you'll be even be able to strike me with no more than a dagger?"

"Meredith," growled Ashleigh, feeling the fire revolve at his fingertips. "You - "

But the vampire was moving, faster than his eye could follow. Reilonde had her hand half-raised when the dagger was snatched from her grip. The blur resolved into Meredith, standing a few feet away. He opened his mouth to speak, fangs flashing in the candle light, and then screamed.

Ashleigh stared without comprehension, his rage dissipating in puzzlement as the sound went on and on. Meredith shook the hand that held the dagger, then flailed it as if he couldn't get it loose. It seemed to cling stubbornly to his flesh as steam rose from the grip. Smoke began to rise from the vampire's flesh, smoke without flame, and Ashleigh smelled something like the burning of ancient pages. Beside him, Reilonde laughed, and there was a peculiar echo to the sound, as if someone far away laughed with her.

Meredith Prideaux burst spectacularly into a spreading cloud of ash, a gray nova. Ashleigh flung up one arm to protect his face as the scream suddenly died.

He didn't hear the dagger hit the ground. He lowered his arm, coughing on acrid dust. Reilonde stood in the midst of a small pile of what had once been Meredith. She held the blade's hilt in her armored right hand.

"Fool," she said. "Only the hand that wears Wraithguard may wield Keening."

"That was _gck _Meredith for _glk - " _The ash seemed to burn his throat like acid, the sharp agony spreading through his chest. Something gurgled up from inside, choking him, and he fell to all fours as he vomited blood onto the stone. The color of it startled him, clotty black streaked with cherry red.

"No, damn it," said Reilonde's voice. "Not _now." _A strong arm was around his shoulders, holding him up as he started to slump. He leaned on Reilonde instead, his strength suddenly gone. At least his throat was clear.

_Gods forbid a Prideaux should leave this world without having the last word._

"What is it?" said the voice of Juggles-One-Dozen from nearby. He could only just hear it over the pounding of Reilonde's heart in his ear. A sharp collarbone pressed into his cheek as he lay half-in, half-out of her lap, held up in her arms.

"'M afraid that _glk _may be all," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "If you look _kaff _around for th'vial - "

"This one found it, never fear," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

"Heal yourself, Warlock," Reilonde said sharply into his right ear.

"Cannot," said Ashleigh.

"But this one can," said Juggles-One-Dozen. A blue spiral blotted out Ashleigh's graying view of the stone pillar in front of them. Then vision grew clearer, although spots hovered at the corners of his eyes. "Remind her to tell you how we escaped the cell, my dear," Juggles said to Reilonde. "This one is learning _all kinds _of new things."

Ashleigh felt just barely strong enough to lift his arm. He cast a healing spell. His strength returned but slightly, though his throat felt clearer.

"No good," he said. "I'll never be able to walk out of here."

"Your brother said blood would heal you," Reilonde said. "Did he not?"

"Don't you dare," said Ashleigh sharply, rolling his head around to look her in the eye. "Not you. Not now." He glanced at Juggles-One-Dozen, but the vampire didn't seem particularly interested in the sight or smell of his blood.

"This one agrees," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "Besides, she can think of many people whose blood might better be shed in a good cause. Come, friend Reilonde. This one will move him to the bed for you, and then she will find what we need."

"Then be quick," said Reilonde. Juggles-One-Dozen lifted Ashleigh as if he had been a feather, and he was aware of a sensation of rapid, rising motion before he was lowered onto something cool and reasonably soft. Footsteps approached as if from below him; he must be on Meredith's bed on the platform.

"There," said Juggles.

"Thank you, Miss," said Ashleigh, summoning up the ghost of former courtesy. Juggles quirked an ear at him. Prideaux shoved himself up on his elbows so he could watch Reilonde's approach. She made a long and lopsided silhouette against the candles. Even that much effort tired him. His chest ached with a slow throb that didn't seem to go away.

"If there's anything you need with the horses, take it," said Reilonde to Juggles.

"This one's needs are few," said Juggles, and was gone.

Reilonde came and sat on the edge of the bed, facing him on his left. "Lie down," she ordered. "Save your strength."

Ashleigh found no difficulty in obeying this instruction. He sighed.

"I must be the world's worst vampire," he said. "No fangs. No unusual strength or speed. No interesting eye color..."

"I like your eyes just fine," said Reilonde.

"Well, that's all that matters, isn't it?" he smiled up at her. She smiled back. He thought he saw the glimmer of a tear in her single dark eye, and that frightened him more than anything he had yet seen. Quickly he said, "I'm sure I will always treasure Meredith's expression when he tried to steal your mind."

"Did he try that with you, before?" she asked. "It seems to have been an early resort with him." She seemed to take for granted that it hadn't worked. It wasn't the _only_ time in his recent memory that someone had expressed confidence in his abilities, but he felt as if it were.

"Oh, certainly," said Ashleigh. "But Meredith is afraid of pain. Was," he corrected himself.

"You're an odd one, Ashleigh Prideaux," she said. Her tone was mild, without judgment or shock at what this implied.

"I have never denied it," said Ashleigh. Reilonde reached for his left hand with her own. He squeezed her fingers gently. They seemed pleasantly cool against his fever-hot skin as she squeezed back.

"So how exactly did Juggles come to be what she thinks she is?" asked Reilonde after a moment.

"You know, I have no idea," he said. "I gather she prayed to Sheogorath for deliverance after she was bitten."

"Ah," said Reilonde. She appeared to think about this. "'Tis a proper daedric miracle, then. I suppose that makes sense." Then her fingers twitched in his as she stiffened.

"What is it?" he asked.

Reilonde relaxed with an effort. "I just thought of something, is all," she said. "We'll get you free of this yet, love."

"Did you just call me - "

"Aye, I did," she said, eyeing him down the length of her own long nose. "D'ye object to that, Ashleigh Prideaux?"

"No, love," said Ashleigh, stifling the bubble of sudden laughter. "I do not."

He assessed her position on the bed thoughtfully, calculating, then brought up his magicka as he scooted away from her. Reilonde had just opened her mouth to ask what he was doing when he paralyzed her through the hand she still held.

She toppled over onto his chest. He caught her before a bony elbow hit his solar plexus. The gauntlet seemed heavier than sin. He rolled onto his side as he tugged her around to lie on her back. Her legs still hung off the side of the bed, and he didn't feel up to hauling them up.

"Ah, well," he said. "Who knows when I'll get another chance?"

Ashleigh considered her for a moment. Then he planted a series of small kisses from her forehead down the side of her face to her chin, feeling as he did so a keen sense of enjoyment of her expression of frozen startlement. The crisscrossing scars were rough against his chapped lips. He kissed the half-closed eyelid of her single eye and, as the lid began to flutter, in the outer corner of her empty socket. Her heart pounded under the hand he had braced, firmly and chastely, on her right collarbone. He watched as a faint mauve flush spread over each yellow cheekbone.

"Well," he said thoughtfully. "I may be about to be killed, but _mwrph!"_ Speech was interrupted as the paralysis wore off, because it was at that point that Reilonde rolled halfway over, brushed his hand aside, and kissed him vigorously on the lips. Her grip around his ribcage was nonetheless careful.

A long moment later she let him go. They lay facing one another, panting.

"Considering my breath at the moment, I had planned to spare you that," he gasped. He buried his face politely in the cold pillow as he coughed.

"Ah, well," said Reilonde. "Better next time." Strands had come loose from her braid, mingling with his own thin, pale hair between them. Hers was just a shade more yellow, he noted irrelevantly.

"I seem to be able to move," he observed. More or less. He felt exhausted, as if he'd been awake for three days instead of less than one.

"I can choose whether or not to use the Lover's Kiss," said Reilonde.

"I'm glad," Ashleigh said honestly. He fingered a dusky yellow strand of her hair. "But I'm afraid we've gone the length I can go at this moment, my dear."

"I will see you strong again," Reilonde said fiercely. "If I have to wrestle Malacath to do it."

He eyed her with alarm. "You aren't seriously considering - "

"Of course not, idiot," said Reilonde. She flicked the end of his nose with her left hand, causing his eyes to momentarily cross. "D'ye think Malacath can cure the porphyry? Nay, I have something else in mind. But you'll have to travel, and for that we need whomever Juggles brings us. I hope you can stomach it. If y'can't, we're up a creek."

"Madam," he said with dignity, "I will do my poor best."


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: What I'm saying about Fyr's cure for corprus is Morrowind canon. This is why I don't usually write about player characters. They're too ridiculously hard to build any sort of plot conflict around._

Chapter 24

Teinaava had been watching Fort Nikel for almost two days now.

Most of the time he lay among the vines at the base of a wall, tail not even twitching, nose and tympana alert and sensitive to every slightest scent or noise. He varied which particular wall from time to time. One of the inviolable rules that he understood without thinking was that one did not stay too long in one place if it was likely the same person would pass one's hiding place repeatedly. And the Legionnaires patrolled the Red Ring Road constantly, sometimes tall and righteous in their steel armor, sometimes tired and bent, always alert for the unusual in these dangerous days. He might eel from shadow to shadow like a snake right under their noses, but not without a good reason. Unlike some of the more recent recruits to his Sanctuary, Teinaava was neither proud nor insecure; he knew exactly what he could and could not do. There was no reason to take unnecessary risks proving it.

Because he liked horses, he had unloaded the two who stood near the doors to the old fort. There was a little stream that ran through the ruins near where they had been left, and plenty of grass and flax for them to eat as they waited. Neither the strawberry roan nor the lean chestnut gelding showed any inclination to wander.

Bar a careful search of its contents, Teinaava had otherwise left the baggage unmolested. He was not greedy. While he did appreciate reward on those occasions when he received it, this enjoyment was firmly bound up in the satisfaction of having done a job the way it ought to be done. The gold was a seal on his Speaker's approval, not an end in itself.

And he did approve of his current Speaker, to the extent that he felt that strongly about anything. After a lifetime of service to Lucien LaChance, albeit a short one, Arquen's hand was light on the reins. Most of the time he took his contracts from Ocheeva, who was his sister in Shadow as well as in Sithis and with whom he had grown up under Lucien's heavy thumb.

The irregularity of his current assignment nagged at him occasionally, like a hangnail (although hangnails are not usually a problem for Argonians). On the one hand, a contract once made should be forever, or at least until its subject was dead. This he had been taught from birth, and this he for the most part believed. On the other hand, the contract in question had been open for more than twenty years now. Probably a hundred assassins on two continents had died in the course of attempting to execute its principal object. The original contract holder was still alive, because he was mer and mer were long-lived. And Sithis, avatar of that primordial chaos at the center of all things, surely could not be said to be less powerful than those who were suspected to protect the intended victim.

On the other hand, however, the Night Mother might _possibly _be less powerful than a daedra. This sounded a little like heresy even in the privacy of Teinaava's own mind, though he did nothing so dramatic as flinch (which would certainly have stirred the leaves around his current hiding place). Still, he had noticed in himself a growing agnosticism on certain doctrinal points every since Lucien's death. He supposed that was only natural. Anyway, he was more than happy to see one contract sacrificed if the only alternative was the sacrifice of his remaining brothers and sisters in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary to the thirsty blade of the very persistently surviving Nerevarine.

That had not been Arquen's reasoning, of course. It was a Speaker's job to be coldly logical. Under other circumstances they might have been willing to wait, to hold the contract until the victim was too old and feeble to offer those supernaturally potent defenses that had so far been fatal to so many Brothers and Sisters. It was not unheard of for a contract to be passed down from one Speaker to the next under such circumstances. But much was known about the Nerevarine, and much could be learned from the records, and Arquen had done the research. No human or mer or beast who had survived the reclusive Divayth Fyr's cure for corprus would ever be vulnerable to disease again – nor to age. That placed the Nerevarine's physical life expectancy with that of vampires and atronachs, not with even the most long-lived of Altmer. (And, incidentally, went far toward explaining why she didn't seem to have slowed up much in twenty years of being, to use a colloquial expression Teinaava had occasionally heard from Brother Gogron, "rode hard and put away wet.")

So here was Teinaava, waiting in this tangle of morning glory vines for the traitor Vannerjei to emerge from the ruin so that he could explain the situation as it now stood. At their last meeting, Vannerjei had irked him nearly to the point of forgetting that no Shadowscale could kill another Shadowscale no matter what the circumstances. That was a rule Vannerjei (who would insist, for reasons of his own, on being called Juggles-One-Dozen) had broken. Teinaava had gone to great lengths not to violate it himself, even to paying Gogron and Vilindriel to make the long trip out to the border of the Marsh to kill a Shadowscale traitor for him. (He'd had some doubts about whether they would return, but circumstances apparently had conspired in their favor, or else Gogron was right that Sithis really did favor vampires like the little Bosmer whom he generally called Dree.)

It would be incorrect to say Teinaava was annoyed at the wait. He had waited much longer than this, under much worse circumstances, in order to carry out a contract. He was a little curious what exactly was going on inside the ruin. He had found the place where the sick Breton had been left to lie, and where he had subsequently followed the other two inside. It had been almost a day later that five filthy, bedraggled, and very smelly humans had come staggering out of the front doors. He had watched them go with some puzzlement. All of them smelled a little off under the fug of body odor, the odd metallic tang that people frequently bitten but uninfected by vampires sometimes emitted. He had managed to observe them flagging down a pair of Legionnaires and heard garbled snatches of the excited conversation that had followed before the entire party started off in the direction of the Imperial City.

He wasn't sure how the ruin's contingent of resident vampires had to do with his purpose, but since both Vannerjei and the Nerevarine were in there, it behooved him to wait and see. If they were both killed, after all, it would solve several problems for him at once. He was not optimistic. Some of those who had perished in the attempt to assassinate Reilonde had been Shadowscale. One, some eleven years previously, had even been a Shadowscale vampire, rare as those were. If she came out and Vannerjei did not, Teinaava would have to talk to her instead. He did not relish the possibility much more than he did the possibility of speaking to the mad traitor, but dwelling on his own wants versus what he was actually going to do had never been useful, so he didn't bother with it this time, either.

Teinaava was in process of revolving these and similar thoughts when one of the ruin's doors began to creak open. He rose sinuously to a crouch, nostrils flaring at the end of his scaly muzzle as he caught the scent of...

_Rusty iron. Dead flesh. Fur. Ash and dust. And a slight, familiar scent that might just be Vannerjei. _

Teinaava frowned slightly, the only physical indicator of his considerable shock. His nose had never lied to him. Vampirism was easily explained, although it was odd that it had not yet been three days. But this could not be Vannerjei, unless he had gone into the ruin an Argonian male and come out a Khajiiti female. He was sure that was the same thing he had been wearing, the shredded remains of the traveling leathers with their effeminate crisscrossed leather ties...

Crooked whiskers quivered at the end of the Khajiit's muzzle. She raised her head to sniff the air, though Teinaava was downwind of the doorway (he'd seen to that). Then she twitched one ear.

"This one sees nothing, smells nothing," she said. "But she hears a slow heart beating. Has the Argonian assassin something to say? Or perhaps it is the mighty Teinaava?"

Teinaava rose slowly from concealment, brushing vines away. The Khajiit's eyes snapped to his position the moment he moved, and followed him as he came forward. They glowed slightly in the dark, unnaturally crimson.

"Who are you?" he said.

"Do you not recognize Juggles-One-Dozen? Ah, but she is a monster now, yes? Greatly it has changed her." She shifted into a familiar stance, hand on one hip. The voice was a throaty alto now, no longer the deep baritone which had been so ludicrous with Vannerjei's affected gestures, but there was a grain of familiarity in the intonation as well. Teinaava watched thoughtfully.

"Vannerjei claimed he was a Khajiit, after his return from the Shivering Isles," he said. "But he looked like an Argonian, and smelled like one. I have been told it made him very angry when others pointed this out."

"Of course it did," said the Khajiit reasonably. "Would you like to be told you smelled like a Khajiit? This one thinks not."

"You, on the other hand, look _and _smell like a Khajiit," said Teinaava. "Perhaps you see the problem."

"I do?" she seemed disproportionately pleased with this. "Ah, then perhaps the Madgod heard this one's prayer after all. Lifted is the glamour which hid this one's true self from the eyes of so many others since the day He blessed her! Truly is she thankful. Perhaps He has not abandoned her to Molag Bal after all." The giggle that followed was utterly recognizable, even to Teinaava. "It explains why this one's friend Reilonde was so surprised, too."

"It is to speak of the Nerevarine that I've waited for you here," said Teinaava. Either this _was _Vannerjei, or it was a vampire so utterly crazed that she believed she was, and that might suit his purposes just as well.

"Ah. Perhaps your Speaker has proven to be a reasonable mer after all. Speak, Shadowscale." She waved airily.

Teinaava chose not to respond to this provocation. "There's a small estate outside Bravil," he said. "It is owned by a Dunmer named Helas Narvarad. He was once a member of Her Hand, and he stays in touch with a few other survivors. He is the one who performed the rites and paid the fee, and the contract for the Altmer Reilonde is in his name. If he dies, the contract will lapse."

"Until one of these others takes it up again, you mean," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

Teinaava shrugged minimally. "This is as far as my Speaker is prepared to go. Helas will certainly have contact information for the others. What you do with it is your problem, not ours."

"Hm," said Juggles. She fingered a rawhide thong tied around her neck. One green bead gleamed in the moonlight. "This one would suppose you were merely attempting to detach her from the Nerevarine, except that friend Reilonde does not need her help. And strictly on her own account, this one is prepared to risk it."

"Do not think yourself forgiven," said Teinaava. "We do this for our sake, not for yours."

"Of course you do," said Juggles-One-Dozen. Never mind gender, never mind race, that bright-fanged grin was completely recognizable, or else the madness was contagious and Teinaava had already caught it. "Now run along, handsome man. This one still has to find clean blood, and yours is too much trouble."

Teinaava did not dignify this with a response as he melted away into the night.

---

_The dead do travel fast._

_The five smugglers, loading their cargo of moon sugar into a small boat on the shores of Lake Rumare, never knew what hit them. Two died before they could get their swords out. One got in a single arrow shot, which missed, before his neck was broken. The fourth lived long enough to draw his sword before it was taken away and emphatically returned. _

_The fifth and largest, a burly Khajiit whose name was Dro'jaja, bled to death slowly enough that he was able to observe the killer draining off his blood into an empty wine bottle. He was still wondering about this when everything faded to black._

_It was barely an hour from the moment Juggles-One-Dozen stepped out of Fort Nikel to the moment she opened it again. It creaked shut behind her as she sped down through the swirling ashes toward those whom she regarded, for reasons that probably would not have made sense to anyone but herself, as her two best friends in all the world._


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Such moments never last long enough. But Ashleigh Prideaux, facing the very real possibility of his own imminent death, thought that if one had to leave the world at all, it ought to be under such circumstances as these. Reilonde lay facing him on the bed's worn counterpane, gently rubbing the surface of his cheek with the side of her index finger. And, if there was little betraying softness in her scarred face, the light in her one black eye was fierce with a possessive joy and more than a little worry. Only two people had ever worried about Ashleigh Prideaux. Both of his parents, Arkay rest them, were dead.

If he was not able to respond to her caress as he would most have liked, at least he was there and it was happening. He lay as close to her as he might, fingers tangled in her yellow hair. It was still damp. Her clothes were, too. If the heavy ache in his chest didn't spoil the moment, he didn't see why that should, either.

"You've stopped coughing, love," said Reilonde.

"Haven't the strength," said Ashleigh frankly. Which meant it was getting harder to breathe as well and, by extension, to speak. He wondered how long it would be before he choked to death on the horrible stuff in his lungs.

_Not before Juggles-One-Dozen comes back, I hope. _The whole concept of drinking blood was nauseating, but not so much that he'd rather die than try it. Particularly not, he admitted to himself silently, if that meant the much-battered hero whom he had every intention of calling his own must lose another friend.

There was no sound of footsteps, but there was a sudden change in the air, as if it were stirred by some swift current. Reilonde sat up suddenly, hand to the hilt of the dagger. Ashleigh did his best to get up onto one elbow again. By the time he managed it, Reilonde was on her feet, arms folded. Juggles-One-Dozen faced her across the bed, grinning.

"It took you long enough," said the Altmer.

"Ah, but the mage is much too stubborn to die, my dear. And this one has found what is needed." Juggles held up a wine bottle, one palm under it and one around the neck, as if presenting it to a connoisseur. "This is an excellent year for Khajiit blood. The slightest taint of moon sugar adds a sparkle at the back of the nose - "

"Oh, give it here, ye daft creature." Reilonde held out an imperious hand. Juggles handed over the bottle with aplomb. Reilonde sat down on the bed as she thumbed loose the cork. Ashleigh scooted back against the head of the bed, propping himself mostly upright.

"Sugar?" he said.

"This one was fortunate enough to find some smugglers," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "You will not have to provide her with sweets after all, no. Drink up."

Reilonde held the bottle up to his lips. Ashleigh put a hand up to tip it, but he knew he probably couldn't hold it up on his own. He dipped his tongue tentatively into the warm liquid. It tasted unsurprisingly like blood.

_Delay won't make it easier. _He tipped the bottle up further and swallowed as fast as he could without choking for several seconds. Then he pushed the bottle away. Reilonde obligingly corked it again.

"Ugh," said Ashleigh.

"D'you feel any better?" asked Reilonde.

"Not particularly. My head hurts like you wouldn't – oh." He blinked as the room tilted. By the time he had put out a hand to steady himself against the headrest, the sensation had cleared. The taste of blood was gone from his mouth as well, gone as if it had evaporated.

"What is it?" Reilonde said. Her ungloved hand had a painfully tight grip on his right shoulder. He patted her hand. She retracted it quickly, flushing.

"Nothing hurts," said Ashleigh. "I – can't recall the last occasion on which that was true."

"Well, you _sound _better," she said. "Up y'get."

He waved away her offer of assistance as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He didn't feel particularly strong. But he was able to stand without help, and he felt no impulse to lean against the nearest wall. His throat felt clean for the first time in two years.

"I think it worked," he said. His own voice sounded startlingly clear in his ears. "But then, to give a devil his due, lying never was Meredith's besetting sin."

"D'you need more?" asked Reilonde. "You've drunk less than half the bottle."

"No, I don't think so," he said. He turned to the Khajiiti vampire. "Juggles?"

She shook her head. "This one suggests you save it. Bottles from the Surilie vineyard will keep things well for a long time, yes."

"And you may need it later," Reilonde said. "'Tis a long ride North to the shrine."

"What shrine?" Ashleigh reached for his satchel where it lay on the floor. It seemed lighter than he remembered.

"This one thinks she knows the one," said Juggles. "But if blood can maintain friend Ashleigh's health, she suggests we go first to Bravil."

The other two looked at her.

"What's in Bravil, Miss?" Ashleigh asked her.

"Not _in _Bravil, but outside it," said Juggles. "There is the estate of a surly Dunmer named Helas Narvarad. Once upon a time, this mer lived far away in Mournhold, that city of magic. He served devoutly the Merciful Goddess, and when she proved other than merciful, he fled here."

"He was one of Her Hands," Reilonde said slowly.

"Yes, friend Reilonde. That he was. This one is informed by a usually reliable source that he first prayed to the Night Mother almost twenty years ago, and paid a great sum to insure the death of the Nerevarine."

"A usually reliable source?" Ashleigh said. He raised an eyebrow. "Does this have anything to do with that Argonian who got away the last time the Dark Brotherhood attacked us?"

"Possibly, possibly," said Juggles. Her crimson eyes almost disappeared behind a crocodilian display of teeth. "But that is not the important point, friend Ashleigh."

"If this Dunmer is killed, what will happen to the contract the Dark Brotherhood hold in his name?" asked Reilonde.

"Why, it will lapse, of course," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

"It could be a trick," said Reilonde. "Or a trap. 'Tis not unlike one or two things that have happened to me before."

Juggles' smile grew smaller, but did not disappear as she shrugged lithe shoulders. "Easily they have found you thus far, no? They have no reason to be setting out lures. This one believes they are indeed willing to see the last of this contract which has cost them so much more than they hoped to gain."

"That is a point," said Prideaux. He settled his satchel's strap firmly around one shoulder, its weight lying on the opposite hip, then held out his hand for the bottle of blood. Reilonde corked it and handed it to him. He stuck it in with the potion vials. "I've no acquaintance whatsoever with the Dark Brotherhood, mind, but how many of these assassins have you killed?" He looked at her sideways, remembering their first meeting. "It seems to me that you told me it was quite a few."

"So it was," said Reilonde. One corner of her mouth twisted, wry acknowledgment of that same memory. "There were nigh on fifty just in Vvardenfell. One the very first time. Five or six more after that, one at a time, all while I was trying to sleep. One couldn't call them fast learners. Then twenty or so in the Old Manor District. They left me alone for a space after that, I suppose until this Helas Narvarad got around to hiring them."

"And then it started again," Ashleigh prompted, as she seemed inclined to stare off into space. Reilonde shook herself quickly.

"So it did. It took a lot of years to get everything done that needed done in Vvardenfell – or all I could stand, anyway. We were set upon twice on the way to Akavir, and this time they sent more than one at a time... Call it fifty-six." She frowned slightly. "The bastards tried again five minutes after I'd set foot off the boat back to Cyrodiil. Sixty. And I knocked about here for a few years after that, too."

"They've attacked every few days since I met you," said Ashleigh.

"Aye, but that is a recent development. Sometimes it would be weeks between 'em, and there was no constant period of intermission. They would know better than to develop a pattern, I suppose."

"For all the good that did them," said Ashleigh. "Would you say it was over a hundred, then?"

"Between eighty and a hundred, aye," said Reilonde. "That would be my best guess."

"Does it take a lot, to train a Brotherhood assassin?" he asked Juggles-One-Dozen.

The Khajiit did not argue with his assumption that she would know.

"Greatly it depends, yes," she said, flicking her ears down and up again. "To join the Brotherhood one need only be able and willing to kill, not necessarily skilled at it. But an assassin of a high enough order to be sent after friend Reilonde cannot be any small investment, this one suspects. Not once they knew with whom they dealt." She flicked the green bead at her throat with one finger-claw, grinning. "Millions of septims the Nerevarine has cost them, and gallons of blood, yes. And mer live to be old, old."

"Aye," said Reilonde, and the short way in which she said it gave Ashleigh to understand there was something else to be said about that. Apparently she didn't plan to say it now. "Well, ambush or not, there's only one way to find out. Let us get out of this stinking ruin, my friends."

"After you, Madam," said Ashleigh Prideaux, and followed the two women out and up the ramp with a lightening heart.


	26. Chapter 26

_Sorry for the long delay. Suffice it to say, business is good for the moment, and I once again have time to look at something other than my modeling and texturing programs._

_There's a German mod called Blood and Mud: Dirt Deluxe that has an English translation. The quests are frustrating, difficult, and easily fudged up by accident, but the atmosphere and immersion it adds to the city is more than worth it all by itself. I always think of that weedy, muddy version of Bravil when I'm writing Oblivion fic._

_I've no idea where people in the Guild are supposed to wash and take a leak. Maybe they have a bathhouse and outhouse behind the building in the mystical land of Uncensored Cyrodiil._

Chapter 26

Even with his light weight on a decent horse like Pert, it would previously have taken Ashleigh Prideaux at least two weeks to ride from the ruin's location all the way east to Bravil. And, given his poor endurance, he had never put much strain on the gelding's ability to cover ground at speed. He would absolutely not have expected to make it in two nights.

And yet, here they were. He leaned forward to pat the gelding's shoulder as the horse blew. He was breathing hard himself, but his chest hardly hurt him, for a wonder. The chestnut and the strawberry roan stood at the top of a low hill looking down at a stable. The city stood on an outcrop of black granite, separated from land by a rocky moat whose waters mixed with those of the bay. Even the dim illumination of a cloudy night was unkind to Bravil. Ashleigh, looking down at it, saw a slimy moss-covered carbuncle of a city with tired men on its walls and a creaky rope bridge leading to the gate.

"Not such a lovely view," said Prideaux.

"Nay," said Reilonde. She sat her roan beside him, patting Nix's neck idly. The mare huffed air out through her nostrils. "But 'tis my hope we'll have no need to go in. The guards out here may be able t'tell us what we need to know."

"Well, if not, I can always ask at the Guild," said Ashleigh. "Kud-Ei is a very decent sort. More than you'd expect, from someone who stays in this place voluntarily."

"Please be quick, Friend Reilonde," said Juggles-One-Dozen. She squatted beside a tree, her shadow merged with its shadow, eyes narrow to hide their glow. She had grown increasingly gaunt over the two days of their travel. "Dawn is not so many hours off, and we may have far to go."

"Aye. You two stay put, then." Ashleigh shrugged and watched her ride down the hill to the city. She swung down to talk to a guard. Ashleigh could not read the expression on his face at that distance, but he did see the man's hand wander to his sword as they spoke. Of course, Reilonde was looking more than ordinarily disreputable. Everyone's clothes had suffered, and washing had exacerbated the wear more than it had got rid of the stains.

_Oh, for a laundry, _Ashleigh thought wryly. _With a boiler and a mangle and enough soap to wash an army. I believe that might possibly be enough to get this robe looking like it did the day I met that mad mer down there._

"You've been to Bravil, Juggles?" Ashleigh asked idly.

"From time to time, friend Ashleigh," said the Khajiit. Her ears flickered. "Generally on business."

"Hm," said Ashleigh. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. I doubt there's any manner of... business... that doesn't go on in Bravil."

Another indecipherable ear flick. Reilonde was on her way back up the hill.

"Well?" said Ashleigh. She reined in the mare beside Pert.

"Fifteen miles to the Southest," said Reilonde. "The place is built into the side of a hill." She smiled tightly. "It seems Helas Narvarad wanted it to be defensible."

"The horses won't go that far tonight," said Ashleigh.

"No more they will," agreed Reilonde. She sighed. "We might find a cave or something before dawn, but we cannot assume we will."

_And Juggles is looking thirsty, _he thought. What he said was, "I, for one, could do with a drink." Which was the simple truth. His half-bottle of blood had run out sometime during the morning, the last time he'd had a coughing fit. He'd drunk water once or twice. It seemed to taste wrong now. Potions still tasted the same, but his satchel was distressingly light and they'd been traveling fast.

"In any case, I need to do a little alchemy," he said. "The Guild will let you stay if you're with me, and they've always got ingredients lying about for whoever needs them. Whatever you plan to do, I'll be less apt to trip you up if I'm well-equipped."

Reilonde looked away toward the Southeast. Ashleigh felt rather than saw her hungry stare. Finally, she sighed again.

"'I suppose I could do with a drink myself," she said. They started down the hill together, walking their tired horses.

"Give this one your bottle, Friend Ashleigh," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "She will find something."

"Are you sure?" he asked. He purely hated to depend on her for blood when her condition was his own fault. _Which is a lie, _he told himself sternly_. You would hate it even if it had nothing to do with you. And you couldn't sneak up on a man to save your life, and Juggles could do that _before _she was a vampire._

"This one will make sure it is someone very deserving," said the Khajiit. "Bravil does not lack for bad men." From the corner of his eye, Ashleigh glimpsed a flash of white teeth. "This one has a place in mind, in fact."

Ashleigh handed down the empty bottle. "As you will, Miss. Just be careful. Remember, you're vulnerable to fire now."

"Most people are," said Juggles cheerfully.

"Look for us at the Guild, m'dear," said Reilonde, as the tawny shape faded into invisibility. Ashleigh did not hear her go.

They left Pert and Nix at the livery stable and crossed the creaky bridge into town. The city gate was open just far enough to admit them one at a time. Mud sucked at Ashleigh's shoes as they walked the unpaved street. The saddlebags were a lighter weight than they had ever been.

"Will they let us in this late, d'you suppose?" Reilonde asked belatedly as they walked. She glanced at their surroundings with neither favor nor interest.

Ashleigh stifled a shiver at the cold,damp air. "Oh, I imagine so. They stay up late and rise late in the Guild here. Even if they don't, I've got a master-key. And I wouldn't bet septims to marbles on any lock stopping Juggles. Ah, there's the Chapel. We're not far off." he gestured at the towering bulk of the Chapel of Mara as it loomed up through the dark. The stained glass windows glowed faintly, quite at odds with their surroundings. The cracks and chinks were not visible until they passed hard by the building's stairs. Mud coated the walls for several feet up.

Not far beyond, close to the rickety bridge that crossed the city's river channel, loomed the narrow front of the Guild. It had the same glass window as most Mage's Guilds in Cyrodiil. Like the Chapel, it was cracked and scratched up close, but someone evidently took the trouble to keep it clean.

The door was not locked. Ashleigh pushed it open and walked inside. The walls of the Bravil guild were dark wood, warped and stained, and only the most traditional and plain of decorations gave any touch of homeliness to its interior. An Argonian sat on a bench against the wall near the door, reading. By the pattern of red and green scales on her face, he recognized Kud-Ei. Even for that angular race, the bones of her face were severe in their sharpness.

"Good evening, Wizard," he said. She looked up from the book with annoyance, then a small softening of recognition. She nodded politely as he unshouldered the saddlebags and offered her the mage's salute, both his palms pressed together.

"Ashleigh Prideaux, isn't it?" she said. "Welcome back, Magician."

"Warlock, now," he said. "And I assure you, the pleasure is all mine."

"Congratulations." She smiled, close-mouthed to hide her sharp teeth, and stood up. "You look to have done some hard traveling since last we met. And who is your friend?"

"This is Reilonde," he said, gesturing as graciously as possible at the Altmer, who stood looking around warily with her single eye. "One to whom I owe a great deal. I had hoped you would allow her to stay the day with me here. Not much left of the night, is there?"

"How d'you do," said Reilonde, politely enough, certainly very much so for her.

"Very well indeed." Kud-Ei did show her teeth this time. "Yes, of course, Warlock. I believe the room at the end of the first landing is open. You're not the only night person here." Fortuitously, she had either forgotten or was willing to ignore the fact that he had arrived in daylight before.

"You do seem more cheerful than when I last saw you," he said, giving way to curiosity. He ignored Reilonde's sharp look.

"I am." The Wizard Kud-Ei set her book down on the bench. "Someone's managed to rescue my poor friend Henantier, you see. Let me show you the room."

"Who?" said Ashleigh, as he followed her toward the stairs. He eyed these old nemeses with complacence, now quite secure in his ability to walk straight up without stopping. "I don't recall you mentioning any gentleman of that name when last, or rather I should say first, we met."

"Well, you seemed so ill that I didn't want to trouble you with it," said the Wizard reasonably. "Henantier was looking for a place to practice and he managed to get himself trapped in a little world of his own creation. Inside a dream, mind you. It's the sort of thing Henantier would do. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to get him out of it. It was driving me distracted for a week and more."

"I imagine it would," said Ashleigh. _Watching a friend waste away and not knowing what to do about it._ "What happened?"

"There's a knight of Dibella who is a member here," said Kud-Ei as they reached the landing. She glanced around the dim hall as if to get her bearings. The walls were of plain dark wood, just like the rest of the guild. "An Altmer. He comes by every so often. He offered to go in and retrieve Henantier from the dream."

"A knight of Dibella, you say?" He followed the slim Argonian into a small room with two single beds. The coverlets were shabby, but they were clean and neat, and there was a shelf with food arranged on it. A little table, two chairs, and a crate and barrel in the corner was all the rest of the furniture. There were no windows. "I had no idea there were such."

"Not many like Esgeriad, certainly," said Kud-Ei. "He's taken up with a knight of Arkay lately. I can't recall her name. Reminds me a bit of your friend there. Except she's a Dunmer, of course." She nodded to Reilonde, who looked startled by this information. "But you won't see them. They went off to the Southeast this afternoon. There's supposed to be a necromancer out that way."

Ashleigh stopped in the process of unpacking his miniaturized alchemy equipment. Reilonde, laying out her meager gear on the other bed, was already looking closely at the Argonian.

"Southeast, you say?" Ashleigh said carefully.

"Yes. I don't know what it is about the wilderness here that attracts these evil men. Helas Narvarad evidently lives in a fortress he's built into the side of a hill. Catacombs and traps and tunnels full of undead." Kud-Ei shrugged. "I think the Dunmer is crazy to try it, but it's obvious Esgeriad will go wherever she goes." She sniffed. "I imagine they'll both be killed."

"Well, let us hope not," Ashleigh said politely. "Thank you once again for your hospitality, Wizard. I really did not know where else to go."

"You'll always be welcome at the Guild," said Kud-Ei. She looked from one to the other of them thoughtfully. Then she said, "The rooms to either side of you are empty as well, incidentally. So you needn't worry you'll be heard." This time she returned Ashleigh's salute before she left. She flicked her scaly tail neatly out of the way before she closed the door.

"Do you mind if I use the table for this?" he asked Reilonde.

"Nay, do as y'like," she said. She sighed. "I suppose there's naught we can do 'til tomorrow night."

"Not if they left this afternoon," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "They sounded well able to take care of themselves."

"Aye," said Reilonde dryly. "Did it not occur to you, Master Warlock, that I might not care to be balked of my revenge by strangers?"

"Oh." Ashleigh set his potion satchel down beside the table, where his alchemy set now stood neatly laid out. "Well, I shouldn't worry. Kud-Ei seemed to think they hadn't much chance of success. Perhaps they'll escape without killing Helas."

"'Tis an optimistic pronouncement," said Reilonde.

"I cannot wish them dead, after all. And, in the worst case, if you _are _balked of your revenge you will also be free of the Dark Brotherhood. Not so?"

"There is some sense in what you say," admitted Reilonde.

"And for now, we have this comfortable room where, for reasons I admit I do not fully understand, Kud-Ei has kindly assured us we will not be overheard talking."

"I do not think it was talk to which she referred, Ashleigh," said Reilonde. Prideaux looked at her blankly. "Y'did arrive with a strange female," she pointed out.

"Oh." Ashleigh grinned, rather stupidly, he was sure. "Well. Much as it dismays me, I'm afraid it has been rather a long ride..."

"That it has," said Reilonde. She stretched her sinewy arms. There was a popping sound. "But at least we can share a bed, aye? Then we need not consign Juggles to the floor."

"Oh. Juggles." Ashleigh sighed. "Damn. She'll have to stay here all day tomorrow."

"Unless she chooses to stay in one of the other rooms," said Reilonde.

"But then we won't have to share a bed," Ashleigh pointed out.

"We could do it anyway," said Reilonde. She looked at him sideways with her single eye. "An you promise not to make any advances 'til we've both had a rest."

"Yes," said Ashleigh, unreasonably pleased with this. "Yes, we could." He pursed his lips with mock primness. "And I won't if _you _won't, Madam." He let his expression lapse as he thought of something more serious. "What about Nerevar?"

"What about him?" Reilonde now sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off her shoes. "Nerevar takes no interest in any romantic adventures of mine, if that is your worry." She rolled her eye. "Not that there have _been _any such adventures in quite some time, mind you."

"I know what you mean," said Ashleigh. They shared a long glance. She looked away first, a slight flush rising to her high cheekbones.

"An a merish ear does not deceive me, Juggles is returning to us already," she said.

"I'm sure it does not," said Ashleigh, and went to open the door. He held it open to the empty hallway for a moment. He was not completely surprised by the sensation of a chilly-furred tail brushing his leg on the way past, though he saw nothing at all. He closed the door when he was sure Juggles-One-Dozen had had time to get all the way inside.

The Khajiit appeared suddenly, shaking away her invisibility like drops of water. She still carried the wine bottle, Ashleigh noticed at once. She had filled out again, but she now wore an intact set of black silks. They were loose, obviously intended for someone larger. She had kept the green bead around her neck.

"I gather no one saw you," he said.

"No, Friend Ashleigh," said Juggles cheerfully. She tossed him the bottle. He caught it carefully with both hands. "Full the place is of mages, all of them able to see a body through walls, and nary a one bothering to try it within their own Guild."

"There's really very little risk if they do," Ashleigh said. "First, the rooms on either side are empty, and second, it takes a great deal of practice to discern one body from another based solely on a life detection spell." He thumbed out the cork, which was now attached to the neck with a bit of wire, and took a drink. It still tasted awful. He swallowed as quickly as he could before he put the cork back in.

"Thank you," he said to Juggles.

"It is nothing. No, keep it, I have had my fill this evening."

"You weren't gone long," said Reilonde, now reclining with her arms behind her head and one heel on top of the other ankle. "Where did ye go?"

Juggles-One-Dozen flicked her ears down and up, grinning.

"To a den of iniquity, Friend Reilonde. To find someone who will not be long missed."

"This is from a skooma drinker?" Ashleigh eyed the bottle askance.

"But no, friend Ashleigh. Pitiable they are, yes, but this one would not kill them without better cause than thirst." The grin widened and grew sharper. "But the dealer, he was a deserving man. And he had a nice belt with a nice purse on it, yes. This one can buy her friend Reilonde some new clothes." She detached a small purse and tossed it to the Altmer, who caught it much more easily than Ashleigh had caught the bottle.

"For that I'll be in your debt, my dear," said Reilonde. She smiled up at the Khajiiti vampire. "But a friend bearing gifts is always welcome. I wish I had something to give you as well."

"This one is well satisfied," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "This one discovers one or two advantages to being a monster. She can go invisible for much longer, for one." She shot a sly glance from one to the other of them. "The room next door is empty too, you said? Perhaps this one will take advantage of it. There is an odd lack of windows in this guild, yes, but this one cannot disapprove it."

"Perhaps you're not the first vampire to rest here," Ashleigh mused. "It's an old, old building."

"Indeed. Well, this one bids you good night. Or rather, good morning." Juggles swept a careless bow as she faded from view. The door opened and shut once.

"We'd better not sleep too long, m'dear," said Ashleigh. "We've got a lot to do before tomorrow night."

"That we do," said Reilonde.

They fell asleep back to back in the narrow bed. Ashleigh was awakened by the prod of a hard finger in his shoulder. He blinked blearily up at Reilonde.

"Time t'get up, Master Mage," she said briskly. "I've got some hot water for washing."

"Some day, I will wake up before you do," he said. "And then I shall take great pleasure in waking _you_."

"You're welcome," said Reilonde. The corners of her mouth crimped upward for an instant before she turned away. She sat on the edge of the other bed and nibbled an apple as Ashleigh did what he could in the way of morning ablutions. A quick trip downstairs took care of the rest. He knocked at the door before entering.

"Come in and shut it," said Reilonde from within. Ashleigh whisked himself inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. Reilonde stood beside the table where his alchemy equipment was laid out, wringing out a rag in the remains of the hot water. She wore Wraithguard and her trousers, that was all. Her hair hung down around her shoulders. It was pale and thick, pulled straight under its own weight.

Ashleigh felt a sudden but not unwelcome warmth as he looked at her.

"Ah, 'tis glad I am to see a man so happy to see me," said Reilonde. She dropped the rag into the bowl. "Well, come on, Master Prideaux."

He stepped forward, reached out to put his arms around her. "Not in the mood for gentle kisses today?"

She leaned into him, kissed the side of his throat. Her lips were warm over his racing pulse. "Anything you want of me, you shall have," she said in a throaty whisper. "Let's have that robe off you first, shall we?" She lowered the hand to reach for his belt. He caught her wrist gently, without looking away from her face. One could fall forever into that smoldering black eye and never see the light of day again...

"Use the glove," said Ashleigh Prideaux.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Apparently last chapter I called Nix a mare and misspelled Southeast. Oops. Fixing it._

Chapter 27

Some time later, they lay naked together in a tangle of sheets. Ashleigh was pleased to observe that Reilonde was fully as out of breath as he was. He hadn't coughed once. Well, not that he remembered.

"Almsivi," said Reilonde.

"Who?" said Ashleigh. _Naked _might be too strong a term, he thought idly. Reilonde still wore Wraithguard, her ring, and a collection of peculiar amulets around her neck that had been hidden by her clothes. Ashleigh wore only his father's silver ring.

Reilonde huffed once. The pale flush was beginning to fade already from her golden skin. "I meant t'say _my gods."_

"Wait," said Ashleigh. "I believe I remember that. Almalexia, Sotha Sil and Vivec, was it not? Almsivi. The three gods of Vvardenfell." He turned to prop himself on his elbow so he could look at her more fully. His hair was quite undone, and he had to shake it back out of his face. "When we met, you were saying something about Vivec, weren't you?"

"Aye, my love," she said. She looked more serious at the thought, but there was none of the black despair he had heard in her voice at their first meeting. "Vivec is gone, nobody knows where. Sotha Sil and Almalexia are dead."

"Yes," said Ashleigh. "You killed the goddess, didn't you? _For everyone's good but hers, _I think you said. Because she murdered Sotha Sil."

"'Twas not for that I killed her," said Reilonde. She shrugged. "What was Sotha Sil to me? And gods will fight each other, aye? Well, maybe not your Divines. Or they're better liars than the daedra."

"They're not _my _Divines, love," pointed out Ashleigh dryly.

"No more they are," she said, and gave him a twisted smile. "It was for the sake of everyone else that I slew Almalexia. She had gone quite mad, you know. And surrounded by her Hands, there was not a soul in Mournhold who could oppose her."

"Apparently there was one," said Ashleigh. He reached out to touch her cheek. Her eye followed his hand. "My beautiful, terrible hero."

She swatted his hand playfully with her gloved right. "We'll get naught else done today an you keep talking like _that, _Master Warlock. And I do want some new clothes. Do not you?"

"If we can afford it, yes," said Ashleigh. He rolled onto his back and sat up with a sigh. "And I _do _want to get the alchemy done. Not knowing what we will encounter tonight, it is best to be as prepared as possible."

"In that we are agreed," said Reilonde. "All right. Suppose you give me your trousers, and keep your robe. That ought to give me a good basis for sizes and shield you from revealing your magnificent self inadvertently to," she grinned piratically. "Lustful lady mages."

"Ha. They've had their chance." He waved a declamatory hand as he got up, the effect slightly spoiled by his foot being caught in the tangle of sheets. He freed himself with exaggerated dignity, earning another snicker from Reilonde. "I may not have a vampire's strength or speed, but I do have an embarrassing number of years' worth of pent-up lust, which _you _have foolishly released upon the world. If you do not hurry back, I will not answer for the results."

"Then I'd better be off," said Reilonde, reaching for her pants.

"Perhaps you can replace that horrid belt," he said, watching her buckle on the tasseled monstrosity. Twenty-four hours of immersion followed by air-drying had apparently done it no harm.

"_What?" _She seized the small pillow from the bed and tossed it accurately; it hit him in the chest. "This is the Belt of the Hortator, y'daft Breton. 'Tis irreplaceable. Besides, I have found the enchantment of use."

"If you say so," he said, and tossed the pillow while her back was turned. To his gratification, it hit her in the back of the head. She twisted and caught it before it hit the ground. Reilonde looked at him and the pillow measuringly, then sighed, tossed it back onto the bed, and returned to dressing.

"I'll see if I can get us something in the way of hot food, too."

"Please do," said Ashleigh, who found himself surprisingly hungry. He looked at the shelf full of vegetables and bits of herbage. "I may have to go out and look for mushrooms. They grow quite well in this miserable swamp of a city, if I recall correctly."

"Aye," said Reilonde. "See you in a bit, Master Mage." And with that she was gone, taking the small purse of gold, a thong for her hair, and Ashleigh's trousers.

Ashleigh put on his robe and shoes, then combed and tied back his hair. Then, not knowing how laundry was handled at the Guild, he bundled up the sheets of the bed they had used in the middle of the mattress. The shelves proved to contain most of what he needed, so he set immediately to work. Eventually he did have to venture downstairs in search of mushrooms, but fortunately there were some in a cupboard; he did not have to venture outdoors in a robe but no pants. The one other mage he saw, a slender Dunmeri in an Apprentice's blue robe, took no notice of him beyond one curious glance.

He never checked which room Juggles-One-Dozen had chosen. _She gave us our privacy. I should let her have hers. _He had heard that vampires were particularly vulnerable while at rest in daylight, and Juggles had always disappeared during the day when they traveled. Once he knew she had hidden in a cave, and once she had come back to camp soaking wet and muddy, as if she'd spent the night underwater. _Dug into the bottom of a stream, I'll wager, _he had thought at the time. _Light does pass through water._

And it might well be that she needed some time to herself just on general principle. Mad she might be, but it was clear she hadn't taken her transformation from living to undead completely in stride. _And not for the world would I add to that difficulty, _Ashleigh thought. _No, let her rest while she can._

He ate slices of an orange when he remembered. The bottle of blood he had hidden inside a saddlebag. It wouldn't do to have someone stroll casually in and take it away, thinking it was wine.

Someone opened the door once. Before recent events, he might have completely missed this, but now he looked around quickly. It was an Imperial he didn't recognize, wearing a layered monkish robe. She nodded cheerily and shut the door again. No one else seemed inclined to disturb him. Absorbed in the alchemy, shut up in the quiet little room without sunlight or voices to distract him, he lost track of time. He was not at all sure how long it was before the door opened again.

Ashleigh looked around. Reilonde stood there in a plain leather cotte and hose and a new wool cloak with a hood. She still wore the conspicuous belt, but now she carried a bundle under her ungloved left arm and a canvas sack in the other hand.

"Ah, there you are," said Ashleigh, rising and stretching. "Just in time. I was nearly ravished mere moments ago."

"Now that I would like to have seen," said Reilonde.

"Really? I had no idea." He grinned wolfishly at her. "I hope you brought food. I may shortly perish from hunger." Reilonde smiled back, but did not laugh. The morning's mood had left her. Ashleigh let his own smile fade as he realized it.

"'Tis not long before I expect to see Juggles up and about," Reilonde said. She handed over the bundle. "See if they fit. I got the robe from here in the guild, as it happens. It seems they lost a member who wasn't far off your size."

_All things must end, _Ashleigh thought. _Night is falling. If we are very fortunate, perhaps there will be another bright morning._

"Has it really been that long?" he said aloud. "Ye gods." Ashleigh hastily shook out a dark robe, leather hose, and a black linen shirt with embroidery at the hems. "I say, this is a fine thing. I hope it wasn't too dear."

Reilonde shook her head. "Nay. Same place as the robe. All I bought you was pants and shoes."

"Did they say what happened to him?" Ashleigh asked, now hurriedly dressing. The shirt's previous owner had apparently been a little larger through the shoulders than Ashleigh.

_Nearly everyone is. _The robe, at least, fit fine, no doubt designed to be snug on its original wearer.

"Seems he fell in with a necromancer and decided to kidnap one of his guildmates," said Reilonde. "The Hero of Kvatch tracked them down and rescued her. The clothes were with a set he used to keep here for when he stayed overnight."

"The Hero of Kvatch." Ashleigh shook his head thoughtfully. "Seems a busy person." He bundled his old clothes in with the dirty sheets, not sure what else to do with them.

"Aye," said Reilonde. "That she is." She was rummaging in the canvas bag. "I've got some bread and roast venison here, if you care for any."

"Don't make a grown man beg, Madam," said Ashleigh, and accepted a portion of each. He ate with one hand as he flame-cleaned and put away the alchemy equipment. His potion satchel was much heavier than formerly. He'd filled all his own vials and begged one or two more from downstairs. "At any rate, I should be well prepared."

"Good," said Reilonde. "One way or another, 'twill be a long night." She cocked her head. "Ah. There is Juggles-One-Dozen now."

This time the door appeared to open on its own. A familiar voice said,

"This one begins to worry she is losing her touch, yes. Too easily she is heard. Shall we meet at the stable?"

"I'm ready if you are," said Ashleigh to Reilonde.

She nodded at an apparently empty patch of air in front of them. "We'll see you there," she said.

Ashleigh shouldered his saddlebags and his potion satchel and went off down the stairs. Reilonde came just behind him with her hood up and her own saddlebags. He had wanted to thank Kud-Ei, but she was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she was staying the night with the friend she had mentioned. She was not a particularly warm person, if Ashleigh was any judge, but she had spoken of Henantier with special emphasis. A couple of Imperials and the Dunmer he had seen earlier were eating supper in a little dining area near the front door. He walked past them as quietly as he could, not wanting to start any delaying conversations.

Bravil's night air was damp and chilly. He twitched a small, defiant smile at it as they went toward the front gate. The swirling fog no longer caught in his throat like a breath of ash.

_And I purchase this very ordinary triumph with a man's life, _he thought, and let the smile fade. _Let us hope everyone else who dies for me is equally worthy of it._

Pert was cropping grass and looking quite cheerful (for a horse) when they arrived at the stables. He nuzzled Ashleigh's ear as Ashleigh tightened his girth. Reilonde settled with the ostler before saddling up the roan gelding.

"Right, then," said Ashleigh solemnly, sitting his horse beside hers. "Which way is Southeast?"

Reilonde shot him a look.

"Too long ye have traveled by yourself for me to believe you don't have your bearings," she said. "You tell me, Master Mage."

"Well, fortunately for us both, the stars are out," he said, and looked upward. "That way."

"That way it is," she said, and they set off at a walk. Ashleigh cast a light spell so that the horses could see. The starlight was dim, and the moons were slivers, but the green glow hovered around them as they went.

Eventually, when the darkness had swallowed Bravil behind them, Juggles-One-Dozen faded into view beside Ashleigh's left stirrup.

"There you are, Miss," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"This one supposes so," said Juggles. She glanced up at him, one flicker of glowing red in the dim light of the spell. "She does not remember it. But then, perhaps it is ever so with the dead, yes?"

"I've never gotten a chance to ask one," said Ashleigh. "And whatever I am, I don't seem to be undead."

"This one thinks not," said Juggles-One-Dozen. She dipped gracefully out of sight for a second and came up holding a yellow bloom of dragon's tongue. "Can you see without your light?"

"I can cast night eye," said Ashleigh. "But that won't do anything for the horses."

"We'll stake them out when it looks like we're getting close," said Reilonde. "If the place is built into a cliff, it shouldn't be so hard to find. I have my own means of seeing in the dark."

Ashleigh remembered that she had gone down into Fort Nikel without him. _I hope one day to forget. I think that hour I spent outside was worse than any I spent in a cell._

"If nothing else, I should be able to find it through life detection," he said. "Surely Helas Narvarad cannot live there alone. If he's been fearing for his life all this time – and I know _I _would, if I were him – he must have guards of some sort."

"Oh, dear," said Juggles-One-Dozen, albeit without any apparent change in tone. She tucked the dragon's tongue blossom into her mane behind her ear. "This one is very much afraid for these poor guards. Well, perhaps some of them will survive, yes?"


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The place proved impossible to find via life detection. A ridge of low hills ran from North to South ahead of them, and the area where the cliff broke out showed pale in the dark. There were trees around the base. They blocked any possible view of an entrance, and went on for such a distance that the door would be comparatively very small indeed. Ashleigh's most powerful spell of life detection returned not a single result. Had it not been for the violently purple glows that revealed the positions of his companions, he might have believed he'd failed the cast somehow.

Ashleigh was in process of quietly relaying this to the others when he heard a distant groan. For a moment he thought he had imagined it. There was an occasional breeze, just chilly enough to prickle the hairs on the back of his neck, and it sighed through the trees with a very human sound.

But the Altmer and the vampire were looking sharply toward the cliff. Reilonde stood stock-still with her gloved hand on the hilt of her dagger.

"This one will go and look," said Juggles-One-Dozen. Ashleigh couldn't see the look Reilonde shot her in the dark – he had let his light spell lapse, and her purple life signature hid all else – but he did see the gleam of teeth as the Khajiit grinned. "Do not worry, friend. This one would not dream of cheating you of your revenge. She will return."

"Thank you," said Reilonde.

"Think nothing of it, my dear," said Juggles, and bounded silently away. She must have been invisible before she left their line of sight, but Ashleigh could not be sure; the purple blur of motion obscured all else.

They dismounted to stake out the two geldings under a tall hemlock. Then they stood and waited. Ashleigh listened as best he could, and renewed the spell when it ran out.

"See anyone else yet?" Reilonde asked at one point.

"Just Juggles," said Ashleigh. "She's running back and forth over by the cliff."

"Hm." He felt rather than saw her flex the fingers of the Dwemer gauntlet on her right hand. "If 'tis true that this fetcher is a necromancer, there ought to be undead guarding the entrance. I think th'two knights have been before us, Master Mage."

"I'm afraid it does seem likely," said Ashleigh.

"Then let us hope they are kept busy enough that I get to him first," said Reilonde, and started toward the cliffs. Ashleigh went after her, trying to keep relatively quiet while walking over twigs and pine needles (and succeeding much less than did the Altmer).

Juggles came back to them well before they reached the treeline.

"Hallo," she said, giving warning before she faded into view. Ashleigh's searching eyes found her leaning insouciantly against a tree trunk. "This one has curious news to report. Already dead, it seems, are the guards." Ashleigh caught another flash of teeth, below the red and narrow gleam of her eyes. "Twice."

"Then what was it we heard?" Ashleigh asked.

"One is trapped down a deep pit just inside the entrance. This one thinks the two knights could not delay long enough to kill it the second time, no."

"Then we'd better not waste any time," said Reilonde, and started for the cliff. Ashleigh felt a small twist in his gut at the sound of her voice. The diction had changed. The pitch was a little off as well.

_ Was that Reilonde who spoke just now? Or was it Nerevar?_

Juggles turned and kept pace with her easily. Ashleigh kept up as best he could in the dark, gritting his teeth at his own noisy progress. He did not renew the life detection. Anything near them could not possibly elude the senses of both an Altmer and a vampire Khajiit, and he needed to see his feet.

"But go slow you must, this one thinks," said Juggles. "One trap there was. There will be others, yes. Let this one find them for you."

Reilonde let out a small sigh. Her voice was more familiar this time when she spoke. "Thank you, m'dear. And see you do no harm to the knights, an you find them, aye?"

"This one would not for the world harm a virtuous person," said Juggles in a tone of injured innocence. She glanced slyly over her shoulder. "Well. She would rather not, anyway."

"Don't be thinking you'll leave me outside, either," said Ashleigh, anticipating the next probable remark.

"Nay, for kisses won't do me any good this time, will they?" Reilonde looked at him slyly for a second. He looked sternly back, quashing an urge to smile.

"No, Madam, they will not."

"Well, I am glad of it," she said. "I've a feeling fire may be of use to us tonight."

"Then this one will keep herself out of the way, yes," said Juggles. "Mind the pit." She disappeared again.

Presently they came to the edge of the trees. There was a little strip of grass before the gravel base of the cliff. The entrance was a set of rounded double doors set into the stone, not unlike the entrance to Fort Nikel. Ashleigh suspected the necromancer had cannibalized the doors from some old Imperial construction. It was in deep shadow, so that the yawning opening was quite black.

"Light?" asked Ashleigh.

Reilonde shook her head. "Use your night eyes, Master Mage."

He cast the spell, watched the blue tint fall over his vision, and was looking into a short hallway. There was indeed a pit in the middle of the floor, with the splintered remains of old timber sticking out from its edges. A narrow rim of floor on either side would just be passable. He suspected Juggles had merely leaped over it.

_I wonder how the knights found it without falling in._

Their footsteps were quite audible. Something heard them from down below, and set up a doleful moaning. With it came the reek of decaying flesh. Ashleigh edged near to the pit and peered down. There were spikes at the bottom. A man in rusty iron armor was impaled on them, writhing in constant and ineffectual attempts to get free. The wounds had not bled. His skin was gray, almost green, and both his eyes were gone. Rotten teeth gaped from his black hole of a mouth as he redoubled the noise.

"'Tis always the eyes that go first," said Reilonde. She was already on the other side. Ashleigh crossed to her in a couple of crabwise steps, hugging the wall. There was black ash underfoot.

"There were more of them," he said. _I wonder what that ash smelled like to Juggles-One-Dozen. _"It looks as if the Knight of Arkay knows her fire magic." It was beyond him what sort of magic a Knight of Dibella should know.

"Aye," said Reilonde. "Leave the thing, for now. It cannot feel pain, and you may need the power." She was already moving slowly down the hallway, head up, listening. Ashleigh went along as silently as possible (it was much easier to go quiet over the stone). He did not yet sense the approach of another mage, but something had left an imprint on the magicka of this place. It had a spiritual stink that paralleled the physical stench of the zombie below them. Ashleigh, who had never been inside a real den of necromancers, found it unsettling. He kept resisting an urge to look over his shoulder.

What he had told Reilonde on the subject had been quite true. In High Rock, he had known more than one mage who admitted to occasional fiddling with the boundary between life and death. That had been in a spirit of inquiry, more or less, and practiced only on those who were already dead. (Mostly.) None of those men and women had exuded this aura of rot. They had been dabblers compared to Helas Narvarad.

_Live and learn, _he thought. _Let us hope that I do._

He still couldn't quite believe it was possible for anything to kill Reilonde. Deep in the moribund core of himself that had grown stronger and more bitter over the last two years, however, he felt that any chance of his at happiness must be thwarted. _And I am ever so much more fragile than she, even with this strength that I purchase with the blood of other men. _Not long after they met, he had felt himself caught up in a destiny larger than his own, a fate that dragged others into its orbit. It was then that he had said, _You should have been saved by someone important._

How was a very unimportant person like Ashleigh Prideaux to survive in the wake of the Nerevarine?

_ Does it matter? _he thought_. I think that tonight of all nights, after a day like this day, I might die a happy man. _

The zombie in the pit grew quiet behind them as they moved on. It probably had forgotten their existence the moment they were out of sight.

"It is Juggles," said a voice from up ahead. The Khajiit faded into view a moment later. "This one has good news and bad news. She has found the two Knights."

"Are they dead?" Ashleigh asked.

"By no means," said Juggles. "Though they were strangely reluctant to converse with this one. And indeed, the tunnel opens up into quite a cavern ahead. You may wish to shield yourself, Friend Ashleigh." She beckoned them with a flick of one wrist as she turned to pad back ahead of them. Prideaux reached into his satchel, located by feel the rounded vial he wanted, and thumbed it open onehanded. He retained the cork dextrously in his last two fingers as he touched his tongue to the mouth of the vial.

He felt the tingle over his skin as he recorked and replaced the philtre. It had taken a ridiculous quantity of ingredients to create that one tiny vial, but he was now protected by every elemental shield he knew.

This was fortunate, as they came around a corner and walked almost directly into a fireball. Reilonde and Juggles flattened themselves to opposite walls of the corridor. Ashleigh stood his ground and felt the heat as it blew past him. He raised one hand as he drew up a draining spell, looking for the source.

"Gods and Daedra," said Reilonde beside him.

The corridor ahead terminated in a doorless arch that seemed to open out into space. As he went forward he saw that Juggles had been strictly accurate. There _was _a natural roof high overhead. Unless his eyes deceived him completely, some of the dripping stalactites were thirty feet long, betraying the cavern's enormous age. The walls were too far away to be seen. A broad walkway seemed to lead out over a chasm just ahead. Points of dripping stone in shades of ecru and sepia jutted up all around it. The walkway terminated in a great platform of rough shape. Ashleigh deduced that someone had knocked the top off a tremendous stalagmite and built over the stump with flat stones. There was even a railing of wrought iron, though it looked half-rotten and parts of it had broken off.

_It wasn't Helas Narvarad who made this, _Ashleigh thought_. He can't have been here long enough, even if he _did _have power enough to build this on his own. Those stones have been there for generations, or I'm an Argonian. _The stones of the ancient pile in which his family had lived had hardly been worn as smooth as the floor ahead.

He was able to make out all this detail because of the bright golden glow that suffused the platform. A red tongue of flame from the center drew his attention. And then he realized that the tiny speck of fire, hardly seeming larger than a candle, was in fact a burning scimitar in the hand of a Dunmer in full ebony armor. The realization of the sheer size of what he was looking at caused him a moment's vertigo.

"Gods and daedra, indeed," he murmured. There was another mer behind the first one, in armor that gleamed gold in the fire. He caught a glimpse of an angular, pale face as he raised his hand to place it on the darker knight's shoulder. Neither of them wore a helmet. Ashleigh raised his voice. "I say there! Hello!"

The echo seemed to go on for a long time. The mer in ebony did not respond nor lower her sword, but she didn't throw another fireball, either. Her lips moved, perhaps speaking to the mer behind her. The sound was lost.

"I'll go first," Ashleigh said. _I think it may fairly be said that I'm the most harmless-looking, and Juggles will be ashes in a second if she catches a fireball the size of the one we saw. _He stepped out onto the walkway and started forward, watching his footing. The railing didn't look as if it would hold up if he fell into it, and the floor gleamed slick in the light.

He felt them as he drew nearer, overpowering the weaker aura of evil that permeated this place. Neither was anything like the thorny atmosphere that had surrounded his brother Meredith. The taste of fire filled the air around the Dunmer like smoke from a furnace, and he knew without another look that the burning scimitar was only the beginning of the conflagration of which she might be the center. The bright and intricate structure of magicka that surrounded the Altmer should have clashed with it horribly. Instead, Ashleigh could see that it upheld and contained the other like a brazier.

He was ten feet onto the platform when the Dunmer said,

"Stop right there, Serjo."

Prideaux stopped, finally able to spare a look from his footing. Up close the Dunmer looked about as he had expected. Her hair was cropped short, her face was probably older than her true age, and she had the narrow, suspicious glare natural to a dark elf from the continent where she must have learned her accent. The Altmer had a quite startlingly pretty face, surrounded by long golden hair; Ashleigh had to check his proportions in the armor again to be sure of his gender.

He felt Reilonde at his left hand, a warm and breathing presence. With the two powerful signatures in front of him, he finally realized the contrast. He had always seen her as lacking a signature of her own, like anyone else who did not practice magicka day in and day out. Magicka swirls through and around such a person without resistance, like air through a lattice. Instead he felt the network of power part around her like water around a boulder. She was all smooth and impenetrable surface.

Juggles-One-Dozen must be invisible again. He heard no trace of her.

"My name is Ashleigh Prideaux," he said. "You must be the Knight of Arkay."

"Varanu Ashazzarnitashpi," she said. "This is Esgeriad. What do you want here?"

Prideaux nodded politely to the Altmer. He returned the gesture courteously, without a trace of arrogance.

"How d'you do," Ashleigh said. The Dunmer rolled her eyes. "This is my friend Reilonde. We're looking for Helas Narvarad."

"Is that so? Friend or foe?" demanded the Dunmer. Her glance past him said she was not reassured by Reilonde's appearance, even in new clothes.

"We do beg your pardon," said the Altmer. His well-modulated tenor was certainly masculine, anyway. "But we've had a trying evening, and we've just had rather a peculiar encounter with a vampire." He squinted, and hairs rose along Ashleigh's neck as he felt the effect of a very powerful life detection wash past and through him. "The same one who is standing behind you, in point of fact."

"Ah hah," said Juggles cheerfully, materializing suddenly. "This one ought to have known better than to hide from a mage. Tsk."

"Well, she is a friend of ours," said Ashleigh. "You surely must understand my objection to the Knight of Arkay setting her on fire - "

"Wait a minute," said Varanu of the unpronounceable surname. She was looking at Reilonde again. "I think I know you."

"Do ye, now?" said Reilonde. "Not to speak to, perhaps. But I know that blade you carry, Madam Knight."

The Dunmer snorted. "I'm not _Madam _anything, Sera. And if you recognize the scimitar, you must have been in Mournhold before it all fell apart. What were you doing there?"

"I might ask you the same question," said Reilonde. Prideaux, who was beginning to get the lay of this and not particularly caring for it, looked at the Altmer. The elf shrugged apologetically: _I don't know. _Despite the circumstances, Ashleigh found himself liking the mer.

_He seems a reasonable individual. If I could just talk with him, perhaps we could straighten all of this out._

"I served the Merciful Goddess," said the Knight of Arkay. "Now I serve someone more faithful than she was. _And _more merciful, gods help me. And Helas Narvarad once served her, too. That's not why I'm here, but I'll be just as glad to see the fetcher burn."

"Not if I get to the whoreson dog first," said Reilonde.

The Dunmer opened her mouth to make what would no doubt have been a very pointed retort, but she shut it as the Altmer squeezed her shoulder. She shot him a sharp look, not taking her eyes from Reilonde for more than an instant. She did lower the scimitar. She did not sheathe it.

"This is all rather beside the point, I'm afraid," said Esgeriad mildly. "For you see, we have first to find Helas Narvarad. And we have made rather poor progress thus far."

"You seem to have made impressively quick work of his sentries," said Ashleigh.

"Well, yes, poor souls," said Esgeriad. His tone was quite sincere, tinged with fastidious distaste. "But at the moment we have the problem of the other walkway." He waved his other gauntlet. "Or rather, the lack of one."

Ashleigh looked past him. There was no sign of a break in the iron fencing. "Ah. I see. Well, that _is _rather a problem."

"You're not purely evil," said Varanu, looking back at Prideaux for a moment. "I can see that. But what you _are _is more than I can say, and I don't much like that you're traveling with a vampire. Why do you want Helas Narvarad? We came out here because we heard there was a necromancer. Or rather, I did, and Esgeriad followed me. He does that."

The Altmer sniffed. He transferred his right hand from her shoulder to his own hip. "Oh, _really. _I had rather the impression you found me useful earlier."

To Ashleigh's startlement, the Dunmer looked momentarily sheepish. "Well, yes." She waved a hand. The fire drew back along the blade of the scimitar, finally vanishing into her glove. "Sorry, Esgeriad." The narrow look returned as she turned back to Reilonde. "But _you... _I'm not too sure about you, either. I feel like I should recognize you..."

"You do have a very curious gauntlet," said Esgeriad. "And the workmanship is quite ancient, if I am not mistaken."

"Aye," said Reilonde. "It is that."

"Oh, bloody damnation," said Varanu. "It's the godsdamned _Nerevarine."_


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Real life is not always a harsh mistress... But she IS an attention whore. Sorry for the delay, and thanks to all the new readers who have discovered me and left reviews in the interim._

Chapter 29

"Well put," said Ashleigh Prideaux. "My initial reaction was, I admit, quite similar."

"The Nerevarine?" said the Altmer Esgeriad, peering curiously at Reilonde. "You mean the reincarnation of Saint Nerevar? I do recall the troubles in Morrowind, but I believed she had gone to Akavir some years ago."

Ashleigh considered this in light of the Altmer's appearance. He must be considerably older than he looked; perhaps serving Dibella _did _have direct benefits.

"So I did," said Reilonde. "'Twas not so long ago that I came back."

"You're the one who killed her," said the Knight of Arkay, whose face had suddenly lost all expression. Ashleigh watched her armored fingers adjust and readjust around the scimitar's grip. "I _did _see you, but you didn't have the scars then. I never knew your name."

"Yes, it was I," said Reilonde quietly. "And I know the years have not been kind. But I'm afraid I don't remember you, no more than I do Helas Narvarad. The Hands I saw were ever masked."

"No reason why you _would _remember," said Varanu. She sighed once, pauldrons rising and falling. "But that's all over with now. Why d'you want to kill Narvarad if you don't remember him?"

"Persistent," Ashleigh murmured. Esgeriad, behind Varanu's shoulder and out of her line of vision, nodded briefly but fervently.

"The last encumbrance I brought from Mournhold was a Dark Brotherhood contract," said Reilonde. "And y'see, I've just found out who paid the evil fetchers."

"And you think they'll drop the contract if you kill him?" Varanu said. "Ha. You of all mer should know better than that."

"They will do so," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "This one will vouch for it."

"Oh, you will, will you?" Varanu looked at the Khajiit. "You walk like some of them. But they're murdering scum. They reek with it. You don't."

"Of course not. This one is a very hygienic person," said Juggles, striking a declamatory pose with one fist on her hip. "Also virtuous, of course. Yes she is." She looked through her lashes at the Dunmer. "Though this one is curious how you came to know how an assassin walks and yet survived."

"Long story," said the Dunmer shortly.

"I beg your pardon, Madam," said Esgeriad, apparently unfazed by this. "I do not believe you told us your name."

"This one is Ah'drazzanaja, whose friends call her Juggles-One-Dozen." She swept a graceful bow. "This one is not sure yet if you are her friends, but you may call her that anyway if it means she does not have to try and say Ashazzarnitashpi."

Ashleigh was not entirely surprised by the ease with which she pronounced the last word. Esgeriad's lips crimped in silent appreciation of this, but the Dunmer didn't seem to notice.

"Call me Varanu, or Knight of Arkay. I don't care. I'm more interested in how we're going to get over there." She turned back toward the chasm on the other side of the great platform. Another railing was just visible in the darkness on the other side.

"Well, Helas Narvarad must have a way," said Ashleigh thoughtfully. "He has to get provisions in here somehow, and given that the place is hewn from solid rock, I doubt there's a back door. If we were on a continent with proper magicka, I'd assume he just levitated or teleported across, but I suppose that's quite impossible here."

Everyone looked at Ashleigh. Then Varanu looked at Esgeriad.

"If it _was _possible here, could you tell?"

"Dear Knight, I was born in Cyrodiil," said Esgeriad, laying his fingers on the approximate location of his collarbones under his armor. "And such changes in the ambient magicka as occur across different parts of Cyrodiil are very subtle, easily drowned out by an atmosphere such as that in which we find ourselves. You might better ask the Nerevarine."

"I cannot sense magicka," said Reilonde.

Esgeriad raised his pale eyebrows. "What, not at _all? _That is rather singular, for an Altmer."

"Aye, so I've been told," said Reilonde. "What d'you say, Ashleigh?"

He shrugged. "As he said, this place is evil and, begging your pardons, the knights are a little obtrusive themselves. The only way to tell is to try."

Ashleigh called up the magicka, remembering a levitation spell he had not used in two years. He'd cast it just once after he crossed the border into Cyrodiil. As now, there had been no indication of anything wrong when he cast the spell. It was when he'd tried to take a step up into the air that he had found nothing was happening.

This time, it worked.

Ashleigh took another step up, surveying the platform below. "Fascinating. I wonder how he did it?" He even felt the slight resistance that always made it so impossible to run while levitating. It was a little like walking through knee-deep water.

"Can ye carry a person that way?" Reilonde asked.

"Carry? Not exactly. But anyone I'm holding onto will be held up by the spell effect. Let us wait and see how long it lasts before we make the attempt. Levitation slows my movement, and it is some distance to the other side."

The spell lasted a good five minutes. Feeling the magicka pour itself through him and be spent, he began to feel the depth and the strangeness of it. Something was here beyond the evil of Helas Narvarad, he was sure of it. Before he could pursue that thought, Ashleigh felt the dragging sensation around his feet that meant gravity was returning. He stepped carefully back to ground level before it wore off.

"More than long enough for our purposes," he said. "I suggest I carry the Knight of Dibella over first." This to forestall certain argument between Reilonde and Varanu, who were still eyeing each other with misgiving. He made it easily over to the other side and halfway back before he felt the spell start to weaken. He cast it again before he fell.

"Shouldn't you have cast again before you took off?" said Varanu as he touched down again in front of them. "What if your spell failed?"

Beside him, Juggles-One-Dozen snickered at Ashleigh's blank look.

"This one thinks it did not occur to him," she said.

"Madam, I have not failed a spellcast since I was sixteen years old," said Ashleigh.

"Such a humble man y'are, Ashleigh Prideaux," said Reilonde. He grinned reluctantly at her sideways glance. "Go on, take the Knight of Arkay next, I'll bide."

He exhausted his magicka twice, costing him a pair of potions, but at last he had all five of them across. It was a long walk down the other platform before they caught sight of the dark doorway. There was no door, just a great pointed arch in the stone wall of the cavern. Beasts and flowers were carved in twisted array around the lintel.

"That's no work of his, either," said Reilonde. "'Tis far older."

"I wonder who dug this cavern?" said the mage Esgeriad.

"Well, if Helas Narvarad has taken up residence here, they're long gone," said Varanu. "Try if you can find him, Knight of Dibella."

"Indeed, Knight of Arkay." Ashleigh winced covertly at the flare of power as Esgeriad cast a massive life detection. The others probably hardly noticed it; to him, the light was blinding.

Presently Esgeriad shook his head. "He is shielded by stone walls, I gather. I cannot see through more than one. Master Prideaux?"

"No, nor I," said Ashleigh. He watched wryly as the Altmer's magicka begin to build back, faded aura growing brighter by the second. "And I haven't taught Juggles a life detection yet," he added, lest they ask the vampire.

"Well," said Esgeriad. "There is nothing alive, undead or otherwise animate between us and the next wall of stone. More than that, I cannot tell."

"It can't be that easy for him to get his zombies over here," said Varanu. "He'd have to levitate them one by one, wouldn't he?"

"As far as we know," said Ashleigh, and Esgeriad nodded. "He might be able to use mark and recall spells, but he could still only teleport with one or two at a time."

"Unless he brought them in through the back door," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

There was a moment's silence.

"You don't _know _there's a back door," said Varanu accusingly.

"No," said Juggles. She grinned. "It might be no more than an air shaft, too narrow for the dead men. But there is fresh air from up ahead, or this one's nose is a contemptible liar. And that is an allegation she has not seen proved yet, no."

"Then let us make no assumptions, aye?" said Reilonde. "Perhaps we should let Juggles - "

The vampire had already vanished.

"Hmph," said Varanu. "Do you care to go first, Nerevarine?"

"That I do," said Reilonde. "Put on your night eyes, if you've got 'em, and we'll follow slowly. She'll come back if she finds aught we should know about."

They passed through the arch with the two mages walking between Reilonde in front and Varanu in back. The hallway beyond it was long, with a set of three archways visible at the end. With the spell of night eye active, all of it was cast in pale blue, but Ashleigh was sure there was no more color to it than there had been to the black stone arch. This was not really a place meant to be seen. Almost all of the carved detail was at the height of his head and lower, where it could be felt blindly with the fingers. Webs and spiders seemed to be a recurring theme here in the hallway.

"This was meant to be a dark place," said Esgeriad quietly, from behind him. Ashleigh nodded, though he did not feel the discomfort that was evident in the Altmer's voice. But then, the bright gold of Esgeriad's magic aura said he was a pure knight and true. Ashleigh knew himself to be no such sort of person.

_Meredith called me a good man, _Ashleigh recalled. _But one ought not allow Meredith to be a judge of that. The Knight of Arkay does not recognize me as evil, at least. I'm sure she would have said something._

"Could've been built by worshippers of Namira," said Varanu now. "They like it dark." She snorted. "Although it doesn't _smell _like a Namiran place."

"Nay," agreed Reilonde from in front. "Though 'tis bad enough." The faint waft of human decay was certainly impossible to forget once experienced, Ashleigh thought. The fact that it wasn't worse said that either Helas Narvarad had tried to preserve his zombies, or that he had found new victims whenever the old ones got too rotten.

_I think I know which. _The one they had left in the pit had certainly not been embalmed. _And there are enough beggars and skooma addicts in Bravil that no one might miss._

By mutual, silent consent, nothing more was said until Juggles faded into view ahead of them.

"You see the ways ahead, yes," she said. "On the right there is a pit. In the center a stair goes down to a great room, not unlike the one we have passed through. It was closed with a great gate, and cobwebbed all across. The door to the left goes to another hallway, and beyond that are rooms which are a little less dark. This one disposed of one or two more of the dead men." the Khajiit shook herself, dislodging dust. "It is quieter than this one would like. She thinks perhaps Helas Narvarad knows we are here."

"He'll know," said Varanu. "We've been putting down the ones he raised. No necromancer could fail to notice that."

Ashleigh nodded again. It had certainly been true of the few necromancers of his acquaintance. He found himself disinclined to speak. Varanu and Reilonde seemed to have warily accepted one another for the moment, and he was concerned that he might destabilize the situation inadvertently. Apparently Esgeriad had no such fear; but then, a devotee of the goddess of love, beauty and friendship ought to know how to conduct himself around others.

And yet he wondered if he ought to point out the spiders on the fresco...

_Spiders and cobwebs. It isn't _Namira _whose attributes are thus._

"I think perhaps they may have been Mephalans," said Ashleigh.

"I agree," said Esgeriad at once. "The magicka here is... more than evil. It is very old and very unlike anything else I have felt. A daedric presence would explain it."

"I'll take your word for it," said Varanu. "_I _can't tell a thing except that there's something here that needs burning. And a vampire. And him." She glanced back at Ashleigh, one glimpse of an unreadable crimson eye through the blue of night vision, but did not enlarge on this remark. "And nary a thing from you, Madam Nerevarine, which I can't half like."

"The old saint is my shield," said Reilonde, quite calmly, Ashleigh thought. "Shall we go on, Madam Knight?"


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

They went on down the length of the great hallway. Ashleigh could not resist looking at the gated doorway as they went. Not much could be seen past the great iron bars. The inside of the arch was almost totally covered with thick layers of cobweb. No one could possibly have passed through it recently, unless it had been by teleportation.

The hall beyond the leftmost doorway was indeed less dark. Ashleigh could not consider this a benefit, however. Night eye spells transformed pitch darkness to a blue and shadeless brightness, utterly devoid of atmosphere. Now it was only just bright enough to see with the unassisted human eye (or Altmer, or Dunmer, he assumed, since he had not felt anyone else renewing their spell). The light was green and sourceless, and under it his companions looked almost corpselike. Reilonde's eye socket seemed deep as a grave. He was glad he couldn't see what he looked like himself. As they moved, the atmosphere of evil grew.

A pair of arches yawned to either side a few yards down the hall. Neither had anything resembling a door.

"Anyone care which one we check first?" Varanu asked as they drew slowly closer. There was a chorus of negatives. "Left, then," she said.

"This one watches the door," said Juggles.

"Well, we've found the fetcher's laboratory," said Reilonde.

The room held a couple of long wooden tables with accompanying bench seats. The tables were covered with spotless glassware, with knives and measuring spoons and other instruments of the alchemist. They gleamed in perfectly aligned rows, catching green highlights from the dim illumination. The set of alchemy equipment was a little worn, but there was not a speck on the metal or glass. Ashleigh checked inside the mortar. It was clean.

A third table stood back against the wall in front of them. It was heavier and shorter than the others. There was nothing on it except for the chains bolted to the surface. Not a stain marred the polished oak top.

"Well, _this _isn't natural," said Varanu.

"You think a neat work area is unnatural?" inquired Esgeriad. He did not attempt to touch anything, Ashleigh noticed. His voice was beginning to show strain.

"For a dead-raiser? Hells, yes. They're sloppy. Bowls of blood and organs rotting in jars."

"'Tis not so unnatural for one of Her Hands," said Reilonde.

A long silence followed this.

"Let's check the other room," said the Dunmer finally.

This room proved to contain many barrels and crates, which upon further investigation held perfectly ordinary foodstuffs. The little party proceeded out and down the hall. Ashleigh felt rather than saw Juggles-One-Dozen on his left and slightly ahead as they moved. She was beginning to develop a magicka signature of her own, though it was very faint – recognizable only as present, not as individual.

Ashleigh could already see that the hall opened into a larger room. It was certainly brighter than the hallway. The light, however, was still that nauseating corpse-green, and the warmer glow of a few torches in wall brackets seemed very small and lost. The black walls gleamed like oil around them, carved just about up to the height of a tall man's head. There were paths carved into the floor, with writing which Ashleigh could not read but which he recognized as daedric in origin. Webs were an important motif here as well.

Warriors in armor stood in two ranks lining the walls, arms presented as if for a visiting potentate. Bare skulls gleamed slick through their helmets and caps, held together by no means Ashleigh could see. Many black sockets turned toward the arched doorway as Varanu and Reilonde stepped through it.

A black throne sat in the middle of a dais at the end of the great room. The room's harsh shadows hid its inhabitant, beyond the hem of his black garment around the base, but Ashleigh knew he was there.

_Gods, yes. No caster could miss him. _The room's magicka was pulled taut, like a sheet with a hand grasping it at each corner. The four different signatures each drew power in toward themselves. _Esgeriad, Varanu, myself, and..._

"Helas Narvarad," said Varanu. Her voice did not echo. It fell dead on the black walls as if they were lined with velvet. "You have sinned against the divine Arkay."

"You are not the first knight to visit me here, woman. You will not be the last." The voice from the throne was not identifiable as to age, but the gravel baritone must belong to a Dunmer.

Beside Ashleigh, Esgeriad shivered. His golden eyes were wide with obvious terror, but his gauntlet sat steady on Varanu's shoulder as he stepped forward.

"You don't remember me, then," said Varanu. She raised the ebony scimitar. It burst into flame. "Or maybe you'll recognize this. You had one like it, once."

"Ashazzarnitashpi," hissed Helas Narvarad. "I know you. You were a lieutenant, once." The necromancer did not appear to have noticed Reilonde yet. From behind her, Ashleigh saw her holding Keening down at her side, where the glow of the crystal blade was not obvious.

"Once," said Varanu. "Before the Lady fell. I've passed into another service, Helas. I think I've chosen better than you."

There was a contemptuous snort. "The one who tastes of thorns has more of a chance than you do," said Helas Narvarad. "And my minions could kill him without my having to lift a finger. Your golden boy's heart will burst with terror before they lay a hand on him. What will _you _do, servant of Arkay?"

"Well, first of all, you're wrong about Dibella's Knight," said Varanu. "And second - "

"Perhaps 'tis not what _she _will do with which you should concern yourself," said Reilonde.

There was a moment's pause. Ashleigh imagined those cold red eyes turning toward the Altmer. Helas Narvarad had almost certainly dismissed her from notice, just as he had dismissed Juggles-One-Dozen (if he had even recognized her presence).

"D'you not recognize me, Helas Narvarad?" said Reilonde. "'Tis long the years have been, and I am greatly changed." Her voice had that nerve-shredding echo that meant Nerevar spoke with her. "Or perhaps you'll recognize this?" She raised the dagger in the rusty gauntlet.

"Impossible," said Helas Narvarad, but the arrogant voice held a shade of doubt. "You went to Akavir. You were dead _years _ago."

"Nay," said Reilonde. "I live. I am fallen out of my proper time, far from any place I have known. I've been broken and healed so many times no one I once called friend could know my face. But no such one survives, Helas Narvarad. I have no old friends, and only one old enemy."

"It will not matter!" Ashleigh could only just trace the movement as the necromancer stood, taking a step forward onto the dais. Red eyes gleamed under a torch. The mer looked younger than Ashleigh had expected from his voice; there was no gray in his black hair.

"Molag Bal is my patron, and the White Grave is rising!" said Helas Narvarad. "Soon I will break the Staff of Weaving to my will, and with its corruption he will give me power beyond the dream of mortals!" He shook something in his right hand, and Ashleigh glimpsed a long staff topped with a stylized medallion.

_ A spider's web. I'm sure of it._

"You came to a place where Mephala was worshipped," said Ashleigh. "And you stole an object of power. From whom did you steal it? Do you think the daedra will suffer this desecration?"

There was another pause. Then Helas Narvarad leaned very deliberately on the staff. There was a soft chuckle.

"Oh, but she must, Breton," said the necromancer. "In the time of the Ascension, who will challenge the King of Rape? Not the Spinner, whose ways are tortuous and whose arm is weak. Do you think I cannot trace her hand that sent you here at this time? There is nothing she can do. There is nothing _you _can do. Kill them," he said. The tone was no different from his previous statement, and Ashleigh almost missed the words.

The skeletons in armor turned as one, and charged.

"Arkay, give me light!" shouted Varanu. A green glow sprang up brightly around them. The first rank of undead checked for a moment, but they were shoved forward by those behind them. Then they were in reach of the fiery sword.

Ashleigh did not wait to watch this.

"To your left," he said to Reilonde, and leaned past her to cast a ball of fire at the skeletons charging from that side. They had to pile up six and seven deep, trying to get at the intruders in the doorway without running into their fellows, so the juggernaut of hissing flame ploughed through quite a few of them before it spent itself. Ashleigh did not have time to feel satisfaction at the rattle of empty armor hitting the floor. He was too busy digging out a potion to replenish his lost magicka.

Something was harrying the back of the undead ranks. They fell seemingly at random, cut off at the legs and then falling into dust. Ashleigh could not tell if Juggles-One-Dozen was invisible or merely moving too fast to be seen.

_The poison I gave her even works on beings with no flesh. Undoubtedly my best work, _he thought, without relevance and perhaps with a little hysteria. In front of him, Reilonde's economical movements were nowhere near as dramatic as the sweeps and flourishes of the flaming scimitar off to their right. The Knight of Dibella stuck close to the Knight of Arkay, using telekinesis to throw attackers away from her vulnerable back.

Ashleigh dropped the empty vial back into his satchel, feeling the very satisfactory surge of power into his body.

"Left again," he said.

"Aye," said Reilonde, and separated another skeleton's skull from its spine as he leaned past her to cast another enormous fireball. Ten more undead went down. The fire from the Knight of Arkay's scimitar did not seem to go out, he noticed as he ducked back and downed another potion. It spread from undead to undead, burning even their armor to ashes. Contrary to Narvarad's prediction, the Knight of Dibella showed no signs of expiring from fear. He had apparently run out of magicka, but he still stuck close by Varanu, trying to club any skeleton that came within reach of his armored gauntlets. He was no good at it, but he kept them off her back, and the heavy golden armor seemed to shake off swords as though they were toothpicks.

A skeleton cut at Reilonde's thigh with a longsword. She batted it aside with contemptuous ease and cut down another one that was trying to gut her in almost the same instant.

"Make me a path to Helas, Master Warlock," she said, as Ashleigh prepared to cast again. "Get me to the throne."

"Very well," said Ashleigh. "To your right." He readied a different fire spell, took a quick breath, and let the power go. His head was spinning from too many potions in too short a time, but the lance of fire had the desired effect. Skeletons went down in a straight line. Reilonde ran forward into the opening. Ashleigh prepared to follow, but he wasn't fast enough on his feet; the ranks closed behind her and he was left facing the undead with his magicka more than halfway gone.

"Damn," he muttered, backing toward a doorpost, and used the remainder to cast the best of his shield spells. He was just in time. A spear struck and rebounded from the purple surface of the sphere that surrounded him. Other weapons struck it without effect, though it looked transparent as a soap bubble. He began to try and push forward between them, shouting, "Juggles-One-Dozen!"

A furious blur resolved into the tawny shape of the Khajiit. He saw it from the corner of his eye for the instant it took another skeleton to strike at her, and then she moved too quickly for him to follow.

"We will reach her, friend Ashleigh," said a voice near his ear. "Drink while you can. This one makes you a path as well."

He was beginning to feel weak-kneed, both from adrenaline and from the secondary effects of the potions, but he ran forward as fast as he could. Thank the gods he was no longer consumptive. He could hardly have managed the walk from the entrance, let alone that stumbling run with a vial in one hand and the other steadying his satchel. Skeletons burst in front of him, armor raining to the floor with a hellish rattle.

The vial clinked into the satchel again as he burst into an open space. Helas Narvarad was screaming in some tongue of Vvardenfell, holding the staff above his head in both hands. A shield more powerful than Ashleigh's surrounded him. Reilonde tried in vain to drive Keening through it, striking purple sparks from the surface. No spell Narvarad tried to cast seemed to pass it.

"The staff is the shield!" said Ashleigh.

"Keep well back, damn you," said Reilonde.

Prideaux did not bother to argue with this. Skeletons clawed at the bubble around him. Juggles-One-Dozen scampered up the throne behind Helas Narvarad. She now stood on the seat.

"Lady Mephala," said Juggles in a singsong voice. "Spinner and Weaver, yes! Do you see who your shield protects, great lady?"

"What are you saying? Stop that!" Helas Narvarad whirled suddenly, ignoring Reilonde's furious attempt to disembowel him. He stepped forward toward the throne, trying to use the shield to shove the Khajiit out of it, but she merely climbed up onto its back. She balanced there easily, grinning down at him. Ashleigh could find no way to set fire to the necromancer with Reilonde between them.

"Lady Spinner!" the vampire caroled. "Come take back your staff, yes! This Son of Molag has not earned it! Will you have him cut your threads, Lady?"

Ashleigh risked a glance around as he realized nothing was touching his shield. The two knights still stood, back to back. There were few skeletons left now, and most of them were on fire. The floor was littered with dented armor, old weapons, and bonemeal and ash like sand at the seashore.

He turned back just in time to see the shield collapse. Helas Narvarad brandished the staff again, screaming words of power. The shield failed to rematerialize. He swung the staff at Reilonde's face instead, surprisingly quickly for a spellcaster.

Reilonde leaned aside just far enough for it to miss. Then she took one short step forward and drove Keening into his gut.

The staff clattered on the black stone of the floor.

"Lord Molag, strike her down!" cried Helas Narvarad. "Lord Molag - "

"Burn, you whoreson fetcher," said the voice of Varanu Ashazzarnitashpi, and she cut off his head with the burning blade.


	31. Chapter 31

_A/n: Canonically, daedra can appear as they choose (cf. In-game book _Spirit of the Daedra_). Mephala makes no real appearance in Morrowind, except in texts, but she does in Daggerfall and Oblivion (as two _very _different avatars)._

Chapter 31

Helas Narvarad's corpse burned to dust in seconds, his fingers withering around the shaft of the Staff of Weaving.

The atmosphere of evil cleared almost at once. The remaining undead dropped like puppets with cut strings. Behind him, Ashleigh heard the Knight of Dibella take a deep, relieved breath.

The fire went out quite suddenly as the Knight of Arkay sheathed her scimitar. Three mer, one Breton and one vampire were left looking at each other in the dim green room.

Then the green light went out all at once, like the snuffing of an unusually loathsome candle. Juggles-One-Dozen's eyes glowed red in the dark.

"Arkay, give me light," said Varanu's voice again, and there was light. The Khajiit slid down from the back of the throne and plucked the staff up before anyone else thought to touch it. She spun it idly in one hand, watching the light play over the ebony shaft. The whole thing seemed to be made of one piece of black volcanic glass, even the filigree of web that defined the center of the medallion.

"And what will you do with that, m'dear?" asked Reilonde quietly. Ashleigh's searching gaze found no marks on her, though she had no armor beyond Wraithguard. Her cloak was gone, that was all.

"This one does nothing at all with it. She uses no sticks for weapons, no." Juggles spun the staff again. Ashleigh was uneasily aware, as he coughed on the smell of flame and ashes, that the level of power in the room was rising. There was something strange and old here, something Helas Narvarad had never grasped.

"Then give it to Esgeriad," said Varanu.

"Ah, but it is sacred to a daedra, this staff. Should your hands touch it, servants of the Divines?" Juggles grinned at the two Knights. "This one thinks the Knight of Dibella would not enjoy that."

"I would not," agreed Esgeriad. The Dunmer shot him a darkling glance.

"And whom do you serve?" she demanded of the Khajiit.

"This one serves herself, and her two good friends, and the Madgod when the mood strikes her and him both. But this one very gladly renders up to the Spinner what is hers, if she will come and receive it. Surely this is more than fair, yes."

Ashleigh realized, as the hairs prickled up and down his spine, that Juggles was looking at something behind all of them. He turned slowly. The power was still rising, magicka crackling unbearably at the tips of his fingers as it earthed itself through his body.

Varanu's light spread in a globe around them. It ended perhaps fifty yards away. And just beyond, in the deep shadows above the carved floor, a red pinprick now glowed. It was no higher up than a tall man's height, and it glowed like a sullen star.

Then another one appeared, and another. Ashleigh knew with absolute certainty that there would be eight. And there _were _eight, and then they began to move forward, and a shape coalesced out of the darkness and into the light.

It was not the bald and corpulent visitation he had been expecting, not the smug eunuch-figure of Cyrodiil's statues and shrines. It was a woman. Very _emphatically _a woman. She wore a black gown whose hem stopped just far enough above the floor to show that she hovered rather than walked. She had six arms, black-sleeved with seamless silken fabric, and if she had two legs concealed somewhere under her skirt that brought the total of her limbs to the same as her eyes. Something like the skin of a bat's wings connected the arms on each side of her body, so that her torso formed the rough likeness of a web. Whether it was flesh or garment, Ashleigh could not have said. The rest of her visible skin was white - not white like an unhealthy human being, but white like carved marble. Her face was beautiful in the manner of a statue. It was completely symmetrical and entirely too still, denying the erotic promise of the body in the dark gown.

The voice, when it spoke, purred up and down his nerves like something small and velvety running the strands of a web.

"You called me," said the daedric prince Mephala. "I have come for what is mine."

Slightly to Ashleigh's surprise, Juggles-One-Dozen swept a graceful bow.

"Of course, Lady Spinner. Take it." She stepped forward and offered the staff to the daedra, who accepted it with two of her lower arms. The goddess made a small gesture, and the object vanished.

"Very good," said Mephala. "You have returned the Staff of Weaving. I will grant you a favor in return, Child of Sheogorath."

"I have a question, Lady," said Ashleigh.

The goddess turned to look at him with all eight eyes.

"Ashleigh Prideaux," she said. It was not a question. Ashleigh found himself feeling suddenly quite small and insignificant.

_ Well. One ought to be accustomed to that, by this time._

"Helas Narvarad said you brought us here," said Ashleigh. "Is that true?"

"Yes and no," said Mephala.

"I don't understand," said Ashleigh, as Juggles-One-Dozen came back to stand on Reilonde's other side.

"I offered choices that might lead the Nerevarine here, or lead her away," said the goddess. "She chose to come here."

Ashleigh was aware that beside him, Reilonde had suddenly become very still.

"You mean that we chose to save Ashleigh Prideaux," she said.

He looked at her. "What?"

"If you had died I would have cared not at all for the Dark Brotherhood's contract, or Helas Narvarad," said Reilonde. "And I doubt Juggles would have come here alone."

"No indeed," said Juggles-One-Dozen.

"So y'let me choose between doing your will or losing the only thing I treasure in this damnable world of yours," said Reilonde. "Is it not so?"

"The world of Nirn is not mine," said Mephala. "No more than it belongs to any of us who call ourselves gods, strive for it though we must." A blink ran through all eight eyes in a small wave. "Otherwise, what you say is true."

There was a moment's silence. Then,

"I have killed a god before," said Reilonde, in the same quiet voice. There was a small gasp from the Knight of Dibella. Ashleigh squeezed his eyes tight shut, then forced them open again.

Beside Reilonde, Juggles-One-Dozen laughed. That was what Ashleigh would always remember. Not the Knight of Arkay's incredulity, not Reilonde's expression of fury under tremendous control, and not the necessity of stiffening his weak knees. Just the sound of a Khajiit laughing in the face of possible annihilation.

As he turned to look at Mephala, the sequential blink happened again. Ashleigh felt that it was all the expression of which the goddess was capable. Either she had not troubled herself to create an avatar of such complexity, or what she felt or thought was too alien to be expressed by the face of a mer or woman. He had an uneasy feeling he knew which.

"Not without more reason," said Mephala at last. "Though that is a potent threat from one who yet wields a Tool of Kagrenac. There is also the small matter of a favor owed to Sheogorath's servant." The goddess placed her lowermost hands on her substantial hips. "And to ask me to save either of you from Molag Bal during the Ascendancy of the White Grave is no small thing, though he has been my enemy from time immemorial."

"Either of us," whispered Ashleigh. "Of course."

_If anyone can cure a vampire, it should be a daedric prince._

"Which will it be, Ah'drazzanaja?" asked the daedra.

"Save yourself," Ashleigh said to her. "I'm all right as I am. Better than I was." _And though she is very resolutely not speaking, I know my love would almost as lief see me dead as saved by the Spinner. It would eat her up inside._

"Ah-ah." Juggles shook one finger slowly at him. "You go too fast, friend Ashleigh." She turned to grin unabashedly at the goddess, causing Ashleigh to shut his eyes again. "First, this one is what she is by the grace of her own Lord, is it not so? He might have saved her from this fate, and did not. And though she would fear to defy you, great Lady, she does not love you as she loves _him."_

Ashleigh opened his eyes so that he could stare at her. She was speaking to Mephala with every appearance of fearless enjoyment, white fangs flashing as she spoke.

"Second, you would not offer to save friend Ashleigh if it did not serve your purposes. This one is not so very eager to serve those purposes, no more than is the Warlock himself. This one has no need to guess at the Nerevarine's thoughts on the matter, though she gallantly says nothing."

There was a stifled sound from Reilonde. She stared at the vampire with an expression which Ashleigh suspected was very like his own.

"And third, you did not say you would grant me one of two favors," Juggles went on. "You said _one favor_, great Lady. That means this one may choose. Such an insignificant one as Ah'drazzanaja does not claim to have the Madgod's ear, oh Mighty Spinner, Great Weaver of Plots. But she thinks he is very keen on the letter of the law, yes? And you are not a maker of such jokes as he would tell, using double meanings of words to the destruction of mortals. That is not subtle enough for the one whose hand is on every thread. Were it so, you would at once have said, _I will grant you one favor, but I do not say you may choose what it is. _Am I not right, Great Lady?"

A moment's silence followed this. Juggles stood with arms akimbo and ears held high, tail arced gracefully around one leg. Ashleigh turned to look at the daedra prince. Her face had not moved, but from the random pattern in which her eyes were blinking, he gathered she was bemused rather than furious.

Then all eight red eyes shut. And opened.

"Very well," said the goddess Mephala. "What is it you would have?"

"Something you do not wish to give and another does not wish to receive," said Juggles. "This one wants an eye."

"An eye," said Mephala. The velvet voice was flat.

"Oh, yes, Great Lady. You see, her friend Reilonde has only one eye, and this one has always thought it was very sad in such a great warrior. She would look splendid with a red one there beside her black one, would she not? And then the Spinner of Webs may put off defying her great foe until his power has waned. Surely she has nothing to lose by it."

"Except an eye," said Mephala.

Juggles bowed deeply. "A very small thing for such a great goddess, Lady."

"Very well," said the goddess Mephala.

"I don't want your eye," growled Reilonde. "Nor anything else of yours."

"The choice was not yours to make," said the Spinner, with some satisfaction, Ashleigh thought. She raised a hand to her perfect white face, and the pale lips moved silently. Reilonde fell to her knees, arms covering her face. "Our business is concluded."

Ashleigh was on his knees with his arms around the Altmer immediately, never mind the goddess, never mind the two Knights of the Aedra standing there staring.

"Reilonde, my own," he whispered. "Are you all right? What has she done?" He was only peripherally aware of the room's aura of power fading, sign that the goddess had departed as silently as she had come.

"Be damned to all meddling daedra," said Reilonde. "I'm fine, my love, fine. It... no longer hurts." But it was a measure of how shaken she was that she let him help her to her feet. He looked at her face.

Her scarred right socket was no longer empty. The new eye was not black like its fellow, however. It gleamed red all across, like a bubble of blood_._

"Can you see?" he asked her.

"Yes," said Reilonde. She blinked a couple of times. "Just as I can with the other. 'Tis not so supernatural as all that, apparently." She turned to glare at Juggles-One-Dozen. "Don't expect me to thank you for the mark of a god I despise, y'daft creature. If you were so keen to throw the Spinner's favor away - "

"It was not thrown away," said Juggles firmly. "From Mephala one must _never _take exactly what one is first offered. You should know this, Madam Nerevarine."

"I think it was bloody brave of you," said Ashleigh, using an oath to which he had seldom been known to resort. "Mad, but brave."

"Well, yes," said Juggles, with a cheerful lack of modesty.


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Blah blah fudged travel times blah. Game scenery here is accurate as I can make it._

Chapter 32

"I don't understand any of this," said the Knight of Arkay. "I just want to get out of here. Esgeriad?"

"Yes, of course," said the Knight of Dibella, shaking himself. "If it is still possible. Any effect Helas Narvarad might have had on the magicka here must surely have perished with his death."

Reilonde was looking back toward the room's one entrance. "Did you hear a gate creaking?" she asked.

There was a busy silence, broken only by the sound of Varanu drawing her scimitar again.

"I hear something," said Ashleigh slowly. "Sounds like... A great many feet..."

He was sure the others joined him in the remembrance of that webbed doorway, unopened for so long.

"I wonder if perhaps the Spinner is annoyed with you," said Esgeriad dryly. He seemed less disturbed than he had been by the necromancer. Ashleigh supposed this was not surprising. He himself sensed no atmosphere of approaching evil, or indeed of any magicka at all beyond the strange and ancient and above all _neutral _power of this place.

A complicated set of silhouettes appeared in the doorway. Ashleigh was able to make out the shapes of many legs, squat bodies hanging in the midst of them. Many red eyes gleamed in the remaining light of Arkay.

"Ah," said Juggles-One-Dozen thoughtfully. "Now that is interesting."

"They don't seem to be attacking," said Esgeriad. "Perhaps they only want their temple back."

"We'll be leaving, one way or t'other," said Reilonde. She seemed calmer now that something familiar was in view, like a life-and-death battle. "But I think they will not look me in this eye and then attack us, d'you?"

She turned to walk toward the door. The giant spiders spread out to either side, edging into the room with all the caution of their tiny cousins creeping under a door. Many hairy pedipalps tapped gently, making a sound like dice rolling. Pointed feet felt at the grooves in the floor.

"Or Mephala wants her eye back," muttered Ashleigh, but he followed her, as he felt he always would. Juggles walked quite calmly beside him. He could hear the armored boots of the two Knights walking behind. There was now a very definite path open between the great arachnids. Several twisted their front segments to follow the small party as they moved. Shifting reflections gave an impression of movement in eyes that could never move.

Not all of them were spiders. One or two had the torsos of women sprouting from their front segment in place of eyes. Something black and red and velvet-soft guarded their modesty up to just above their breasts, and great headdresses stood back from their small skulls. Faces like the face of the goddess turned to follow them as they walked.

_Spider daedra. _From the murmured prayer behind him, Esgeriad had noticed them as well. Ashleigh had never met a summoner who could control one of Mephala's daughters for more than five minutes. They could not be reasoned with, like the dremora, nor threatened into obedience, like the atronachs of ice and flame. It was said that their whispering voices and the tortuous paths of their minds would drive a conjurer mad, and then they would destroy him with magic and with venom. For now, they only stood and watched. Ashleigh saw one raise a hand to her eye as if in salute.

The crowd closed in behind them as they walked. The webbed doorway outside was cleared now, and stood open. Stairs led down into the dark.

"Fresh air comes from this way," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "But also from the other doorway. And that one is better lit. Either way, this one thinks we will find the way too small for these." She flicked an ear at the spiders and the daedra.

"Looks like we've got no choice," said Varanu. The way back to the chasm was blocked by many bodies.

"No, we have one choice," said Ashleigh. He looked for one door to the other. The one where the webs had been gaped like the mouth of a pit. The other, with its faint golden glow, was ever so much more inviting.

And quite suddenly the words of Dagail recurred to him.

_Take the black one._

"I think we'd better take the darker way," he said.

All of the others looked at him.

"You'd better have a damn good reason for that, Master Mage," said Varanu.

"There is a deep pit in the other room," said Juggles-One-Dozen. "Cross it we may not, but you might circumvent the edge with difficulty an you cannot levitate any more."

Ashleigh explained briefly about the predictions.

"I know Mistress Dagail," said Esgeriad. "I have never known her wrong."

"Then you'd better let me go first again," said Reilonde. "Will you walk with me, Ashleigh?"

"For as long as I am able," said Ashleigh Prideaux.

The stairs led down into a deep cavern. There was another walkway, this one across a shallow depression that was well lined with something white and shining. There was no silk on the path itself. No creature followed them back through the doorway, though when he looked back he saw the gleam of many eyes beyond the arch.

After a few yards, Ashleigh could feel the draft. After a few more, they found the narrow tunnel that led to the back door. It was too small for a spider daedra to fit, and it was something of a squeeze for each of the Knights in their armor, but at last everyone stood outside on the sward under the stars.

"It's still night," said Prideaux.

"Aye," said Reilonde. "'Tis only an hour or two we were inside, Ashleigh. Where d'you suppose we are?"

"Atop the cliff, friend Reilonde," said Juggles-One-Dozen promptly. "If we go _that _way we will have something of a walk back to your horses, this one thinks."

"Then we'll part company here," said the Knight of Arkay. She nodded her head once. "Madam Nerevarine."

Reilonde returned the gesture just as curtly. "Knight of Arkay. Knight of Dibella."

"And a very good evening to all of you," said Esgeriad, bowing gracefully. "Dibella's blessing."

"Thank you," said Ashleigh,when no one else seemed about to. Juggles was staring off into the dark, humming to herself. Reilonde watched the Knight of Arkay until they were both out of sight. Ashleigh found himself a bit relieved to see the last of those two very obtrusive magicka signatures. He took in a deep breath and let it out.

"Well," he said. "After you, Juggles."

They found the chestnut and the strawberry roan exactly where they had left them. Both were peaceably cropping the moss. Neither seemed to detect any change in the Altmer as she and Ashleigh gathered up the stakes and mounted up.

"Shall you go back to Bravil?" Juggles-One-Dozen asked.

"Nay," said Reilonde. "If you ask me, I say we ride hell-bent for the North. Can ye keep up, Juggles?"

"Of course she can," said Juggles-One-Dozen. She grinned up at Ashleigh. "Because this one did not take Ashleigh Prideaux's very selfless advice." The vampire laughed. "Then to the North, my friends! The night is not so very old yet, and we have far to go."

"But where _are _we going?" Ashleigh asked.

"You'll see," said Reilonde, and set heels to the mare.

They rode until the Eastern sky began to grow lighter, presaging the sunrise. Their path curved around Bravil a few miles out and kept on to the North. The terrain grew a little steeper, deciduous trees slowly being outnumbered by conifers.

"Now I fear I must leave you," said Juggles-One-Dozen. They reigned up in a small copse of trees, sheltered in a small dell. "But we have come far, no? We are nearly halfway." She shot Reilonde a look from under her thick lashes. "This one will not be far off. But she does not hear a thing while sleeping the sleep of the dead, no."

"Good to know," said Ashleigh politely. Juggles just grinned at him, flicking her ears down and up. Reilonde grunted noncommittally. But then, she had said very little to either of them over the long ride. The vampire sped off as they dismounted and was soon out of sight over the next rise in the grassy earth.

Ashleigh drew a deep breath. He did not cough, but he could feel the slightly thick feeling in his lungs that meant he had not drunk for a while. _Save it. It may be some way to the next source. _He sought desperately for something to say.

"Shall I find us some wood for a fire?" he asked Reilonde, when the business of unloading the horses and arranging their gear was done.

"Are y'cold, Master Mage?" she asked him abstractedly. She was looking around at the trees.

"No," said Ashleigh.

"No more am I. I think I _would _care to bathe in the little brook that, if merish ears fail me not, lies just behind those trees."

"Shall you prefer to do that alone?" he asked.

Now she did turn to look at him fully. Her smile was fleeting.

"Aye," she said. "But afterwards we'll see."

Ashleigh shrugged. He went about washing himself as best he could a few yards downstream and out of sight around a bend in the terrain. There was a very small rim of gravel to either side, not big enough to be called a beach. Conifers came right up to it in all but a few places. They brushed him with their green prickles as he dried himself. He went back to the camp area with his garments over his arm, wearing only his shoes.

Reilonde, similarly unclad except for Wraithguard, was arranging some pine boughs with a horse blanket under them. Her hair hung damp around her yellow shoulders, mixing with her amulets. Ashleigh had tied his back.

"Well, Madam," he said, laying his clothes over his saddlebags. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"Did y'think I'd rather be up against a tree?" she asked dryly.

"Anything you like, my love, but I was referring to your choice of garb. I thought perhaps you would not wish to repeat the events of yesterday."

"And why would you think that?" she demanded, straightening up and brushing off her palm and the palm of the Dwemer gauntlet. "Did it seem to you I did not enjoy it, my own?"

"Well, no," said Ashleigh. "It didn't seem that way. But it had been a long time for me before that, and - "

"Well, let it not be a long time after, then," she said, and beckoned imperiously. Ashleigh drew her slowly into the circle of his arms. "An ye can bear to see this thing up close, that is," she said, turning so that he looked into her new eye.

Ashleigh ran a finger under her lower eyelid, feeling the puckered scars. Her eyelashes brushed his fingertip. "It is part of you," he said. His own voice began to sound hoarse in his ears. "I can only call it mine."

Her fierce kiss ended any further conversation.

Prideaux awoke in full darkness, looking at the stars above his head. He was sure someone had spoken. Perhaps they had said his name?

"What?" he said.

"'Tis time to be up and about," said Reilonde's voice. Her face hovered into his view above a disappointingly clothed view of her chest. "Juggles has come back."

"Flaming Akatosh," said Ashleigh, and sat up as the Altmer leaned back. Someone had draped his robe over most of his lower half, but he felt a little chilled now. "One day, Madam, I will so tire you out that I wake up before you do, and when that happens - "

"Juggles will protect me," she informed him.

"This one never interferes in a lover's quarrel," said the Khajiit cheerfully. Ashleigh looked around, squinting as his eyes adjusted, and finally located the glow of red eyes off to his right.

"For shame," said Ashleigh, with dignity, and reached for his hose. He only just traced the movement as Juggles turned away. She apparently made no attempt to stifle the ensuing giggle.

"Breakfast?" Reilonde asked him as he did up the robe's belt. "Or possibly supper?"

"Er, yes, please," he said, and caught the two lumps she tossed him – one a half-loaf of bread, one an apple whose skin had not had time to wrinkle much. He held them awkwardly in one hand as he dug in his saddlebag. "Juggles, how are you faring?"

"This one has not happened to anyone yet, friend Ashleigh," said Juggles, turning back around. As his eyes adjusted further he could see her leaning against a tree trunk. "But not to worry. In the night all sorts of terrible people are about, and only three of them are us."

"I'll split it with you," Ashleigh offered, holding up the half-bottle of blood.

"No, thank you," said Juggles. She showed a quick flash of white, a toothy grin in the dark. "This one prefers it a little fresher."

"All right, then." He tried not to make a face as he drank it, aware of her eyes on him.

"You are yet a stranger to the thirst, friend Ashleigh," said Juggles mildly. "With this one it is not so."

"Well, I can't outrun a horse, either," Ashleigh said.

"It is a good point, this," she acknowledged. "Shall we go?"

They rode on toward the North as the moon rose. Ashleigh turned Pert to follow Nix as the terrain grew steeper and the trail narrower. They went slower here, sparing the horses. Gradually the road rose more and more, until there was snow around the edges of the trail. They passed a great cold lake at one point, the way winding around its banks in a half-circle. Ashleigh paused long enough to look down into the dark water. Nothing moved there. Perhaps it was too cold. He could see his own breath and Reilonde's. The horses blew little clouds of steam from each nostril, as if they were dragons.

Reilonde continued to say very little. She frowned often, pale brows wrinkled above one black eye and one red one. Once he asked her where they were going.

"No harm in you knowing, I suppose," she said. "We are going to the Shrine of another daedra."

Ashleigh felt his stomach turn.

"Not Molag Bal," he said, trying not to let it be a question. "I heard his shrine is far south and west of here."

Reilonde snorted. "Bloody hells, man. Of course not. Nay, it is another of whom I speak. One whom the Dunmer have long called a friend."  
"Azura," said Ashleigh. "I heard that the returned Nerevarine was associated with Azura."

"Aye," said Reilonde. "Keep your eye out for will o' the wisps, Ashleigh. A portion of luca dust will not go amiss when we reach the Shrine."


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: If you haven't played Morrowind, you're going to think I made up some names here, but I didn't._

Chapter 33

_Spiders and spider daedra moved lightly to and fro. Many legs tapped the dark floors with a sound like soft rain._

_ They would have a great deal to do redecorating their temple to their liking, including the strong silk bridge that had once crossed the first chasm to admit those faithful to the Spinner. The less faithful would be let in too, of course. There was at least one appetite in the place that would not be sated by one victim every twenty years._

_ Even now, spider daedra clung to the rims of the great pit past the third arch. They crooned songs of worship to their mother down toward the darkness. Sometimes the great spiders would venture here as well, but not often. They were still of the nature of spiders, and spiders are consumers of their own kind. After that strange initial crowding they had spread out to establish uneasy territories for themselves, many among the great stalactites and stalagmites of the opening chasm. They would not come to this room unless they were so small and weak that they could choose no other place._

_ And sometimes a spider daedra would fall from the rim down into the pit, and hear the laughter of her sisters up above as pedipalps thicker than a man's waist gathered her in. In spider daedra death is hardly more than an inconvenience, of course. But the Spinner's daughters, like their tiny sisters in Nirn, set great store by their own consequence. _

_ The giant of the pit was very disappointed that the portions of warm flesh she had sensed up above had never passed by her dwelling. She had been waiting long, and their blood would have been much sweeter than the blood of daedra._

_ Well, if there was anything she had learned by this time, it was patience. She gathered herself up in the midst of limbs that could embrace a house and composed herself to wait._

They did encounter more than one will o' the wisp on the way to the Shrine of Azura. The important thing about these lesser supernatural creatures, however, is that they attack almost entirely by means of magickal attribute drains. Reilonde didn't even have to raise a finger once they'd latched onto Ashleigh. He had almost a half-pound of the glowing yellow dust in a bag at his belt by the time they passed the doomstone and came to the last steep incline. Here they dismounted and staked the horses out near the road. Juggles-One-Dozen's frequent absences, coupled with the occasional distant scream, gave Ashleigh to understand that the animals would be entirely safe from bandits.

"It must be near sunrise," Reilonde murmured as they climbed the slope over the snow. "We've come at the right time."

"Don't let us keep you if you have to go," Ashleigh said to Juggles-One-Dozen. The vampire sashayed along beside him, fingering glow dust through her unruly brown mane. It added a soft glimmer that clashed somewhat with the red gleam of her eyes.

"Ah, but this one would not miss this for the world, friend Ashleigh. She has picked out a cave for her rest in any case, and can run there very quickly when the time comes." Juggles flicked an ear. "So many more caves and hiding places in the high Jeralls. This one cannot imagine why more vampires do not seek them out."

"'Tis because there are more people down on the plains," said Reilonde.

"Very true, my friend," said Juggles. "Certainly there seem to be fewer here of late."

They passed through the last circle of trees and onto a small plateau. Here someone had laid down gravel over the snow and mud. There were a couple of austere wooden benches and a lectern. Behind them towered a statue of dull white stone, the likeness of a woman with a crescent moon in one hand and a star in the other. The cylindrical pedestal on which Azura's statue stood was nearly five feet tall all on its own, and wider than Ashleigh's arms could reach.

People in brown robes turned to stare at them. Behind the lectern stood a middle-aged Dunmer. His hair was shaved except for a thin strip up the middle, which had been allowed to grow stiff and tall. Combined with an inquiring expression, it gave him the look of a curious lizard.

"Beg pardon," said Reilonde, but did not seem about to introduce herself. She stalked past the Dunmer to the base of the Shrine. "Master Prideaux?"

He detached the bag of luca dust and placed it reverently on the rim of the pedestal.

Nothing happened.

"Is that a vampire?" said someone behind them. Juggles-One-Dozen turned around. Ashleigh imagined the all-but-inevitable grin. He was listening for the first gasp and was glumly satisfied to hear it.

"This is a sacrilege," said a voice which probably belonged to the Dunmer. "A desecration. The Lady will not hear you."

"I hope you are wrong," said Reilonde. She looked at Ashleigh and Juggles. "But stand well back, my friends."

Ashleigh backed away from the shrine. Juggles-One-Dozen sauntered after him, fluffing her mane further with her clawed fingers. He looked at the worshippers of Azura again, but none seemed disposed to violence. They only watched.

Reilonde looked up at the statue.

"You remember me, Mother of the Rose," she said. "No Daedra Prince could forget so quickly as that, least of all you."

Nothing continued to happen.

"Then what about this?" Reilonde asked quietly. Ashleigh watched as she used Wraithguard to remove the purple-stoned ring from her right hand and place it beside the bag of glow dust.

The goddess did not speak or materialize. A cold wind blew through the slowly lightening forest around them.

"That is asking much," said Reilonde, as if to herself. "But it is much I will ask as well. Aye, then."

And slowly, with much difficulty, she began to draw Wraithguard off her left arm. For a moment Ashleigh wondered if her weaker right would be up to the task, but did not dare offer to help. Not even Juggles might offer to help at a time like this. She stood silent beside him, ears cocked.

Eventually, the gauntlet was off. Reilonde laid it on the ground beside the pedestal, not beside the other things; this, at least, she was not willing to sacrifice. Her left arm was ringed with the scars of a hundred scrapes, and the flesh was nearly white where the rest of her visible skin was yellow. Muscle bulged close to the surface, veins blue and dark. Ashleigh was startled to realize Reilonde's left hand had no fingernails left. Whether they had been lost to some torture long past, or only to repeated battering, he could not have said.

Without the gauntlet, Reilonde's entire posture was different, unbalanced and a little uncertain. Ashleigh, who had seen her wearing nothing _but _Wraithguard, now looked at her clothed without it and could not escape the conviction that he was seeing her naked for the first time.

There was a ring on the first finger of that nailless half-dead hand. Though it had surely been trapped inside the gauntlet for years, it shone bright with the gleam of gold. He was not surprised to see the crescent moon and star that were its only ornaments. There was no gemstone.

Behind him, the worshippers gasped as Reilonde reached out to touch the foot of the stone goddess with the hand that wore the Moon-And-Star.

"I did you a service once, Lady of Twilight," she said. "Will ye not hear me for the sake of that dark time?"

Soft light suddenly suffused the statue, pink and gold at once. Ashleigh blinked. When he looked again, the carved image had vanished as though it had never been. The ring was gone. The bag of dust was gone. The fragrance of rose petals was overpowering.

And hovering atop the pedestal, limned with the glow of sunrise, hung the goddess. This was not the carelessly inhuman avatar Mephala had used. Azura's image was definably Dunmer, gray-skinned and crimson-eyed and pointed of ear. Her black hair was drawn tightly back into a knot, and her gown hung in long folds, in many shades of blue like a morning sky. The fabric was real enough that it whispered in the cold wind.

The sounds of surprise and fear behind him said that the Azurans had never seen such an apparition.

"It is not thus that I knew the first Nerevar," said Azura's voice. Her lips moved and her eyes blinked like a living mer's, but the sweet echo of the words approached no mortal thing. "But it is thus that I knew Reilonde, the vessel of Nerevar reborn. You see me now bearing the image of those I once cursed, for whom all things are made right. See and remember."

There were prayerful acknowledgements. The goddess turned her gaze on Reilonde, who stood with her head raised, looking back. She still held the hand that wore the Moon-And-Star against the pedestal.

"You did me no service, Nerevarine," said Azura. "To pursue one's own destiny is to serve no one and nothing. It is only to be."

"Not so, Lady of Sunset," said Reilonde softly. Ashleigh, who was listening for it, heard the tinny echo that meant Nerevar spoke with her. "You made a promise to the Dunmer. Of all those you called, all you chose, only I could keep it for you."

"Tread carefully," said Azura, with no apparent change in her voice.

"Peakstar is my witness, and Conoon Chodala, and all the fallen company beside them," said Reilonde. "The old saint remembers their names, but he walks only with me. Is it not so? Someone had to avenge the one whose Annunciation you are. Only my hand could strike that blow. Is it not so?"

There was a moment's long silence. Azura's face showed no apparent emotion when she said,

"These things are true. What will you have of me?"

"I ask healing for Ashleigh Prideaux," said Reilonde.

Ashleigh held himself very still as the goddess turned her crimson eyes on him. The face might be mer, but the eyes were of some older, stranger thing.

"You ask much," she said. "My own followers, so afflicted, were offered only the mercy of annihilation. How can I give more to this man who does not serve me?"

"It is the way of daedra to give what is not desired, and deny what is asked," Reilonde said. "Or I would stand before you with one eye instead of two. Your gifts, unasked, have brought me great trial. This you know. Will you not receive them again, and give to me this one thing I desire?"

"What is mortal desire?" Azura asked. "Deny yourself, and learn patience, and come to me again." Ashleigh let out the breath he had been holding as those lovely and terrible eyes turned back to Reilonde.

"Will you call me mortal?" Reilonde asked, and the metallic echo was stronger. Ashleigh could almost make out the male voice behind the hard soprano. "I who have walked unaging in bitter pain, watching others perish? I who have learned the faithlessness of gods? That is cruel, Mother of the Rose, and I have not known you cruel."

"I have no power to take from Molag what he has stolen," said Azura. "You must know this, Nerevarine."

_Now we're getting down to it, _Ashleigh thought. He wondered abstractedly where Juggles-One-Dozen had gone. _To her cave, I hope._

"But it can be done," said Reilonde. "Show me this path, Great Lady. Bid me find him in Coldharbour itself, and I will go."

"You would fail," said Azura, and for a moment Ashleigh thought he saw a glimpse of humor, something utterly unexpected in the alien and powerful creature before him. "Even you, Nerevar. Daedra Princes are not Almsivi, whom daedra once made."

"There must be a way," said Reilonde.

"Yes," said Azura. "There is a way."

Ashleigh became aware that he was holding his breath again.

"I have a disciple called Tritius," said the goddess. "He once made a pilgrimage to Vvardenfell, and brought from there a vial of Divayth Fayr's making. You know of what I speak."

"I know," said Reilonde.

"He keeps it in a shrine of his own building, in remembrance of my glory and deliverance. You will take to him the Moon-And-Star and give it him in trade for this vial. This is my only offer."

"Where shall I find Tritius?" Reilonde asked.

"Beneath the lake," said the goddess. "Day is breaking. Farewell, Reilonde Nerevarine."

"Farewell, Mother of the Rose," said the dual voice. Reilonde drew her hand back and bowed her head. Ashleigh looked away from the light again. When he looked back, the statue had returned.

The Altmer began to work the golden ring off her finger. It was obviously difficult. She probably had not taken it off since the last time she removed Wraithguard. Ashleigh watched as she transferred it to her other hand. Then she bent to pick up the gauntlet, brushed the snow from the dull metal, and began to work the pale monstrosity of a left arm back into its sheath.

"Beneath the lake," she said. She sighed as she moved her fingers within the fingers of Wraithguard. "Well, 'tis not the hardest quest I have been asked to perform. Did y'see where Juggles went?"

"No, but she'll find us quickly enough come the night, I'm sure," said Ashleigh. "Surely you cannot mean to _dive _into that lake we passed?"

Reilonde shrugged as they walked between the Azurans. No one seemed disposed to speak to them. The Dunmer with the tall hair watched them go with something of a stunned expression.

"Well," she said. "We'll see."


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

They walked the horses slowly down toward the lake. It looked fully as dark and as cold as Ashleigh remembered.

"It's not so very large," he said. "But you'll still have to look for this Tritius and his shrine. How will you survive?"

"I still have my amulet," said Reilonde. "The one that saved me when I hid from the Master. And I can see right well in the dark, this you know."

"I know," said Ashleigh. "It's not those things that worry me." He waved a hand at the ground. "D'you see the snow? That water may not be frozen, but I'll wager it's cold as Molag's heart. Have you any charm against freezing to death?"

"I was afraid you might ask that," said Reilonde.

"Not for my sake, Reilonde," said Ashleigh quietly. "Never for my sake. I could not bear it."

"But calm yourself, my dear," she said. Her face was hidden from him behind the horse she led. "Shall I die when it would not save you? Nay, no such thing. You are the master alchemist. Can y'not make me some philtre that will protect me from the cold?"

Ashleigh ran a hand distractedly over the vials in his satchel.

"I've used up most of what I had," he said. "And there's not much I can gather above the snowline. I have a couple of raisins, and... Yes. I could make you a potion, but it would not last more than a few minutes."

"Then I will not use it until my need is desperate," said Reilonde. "We'll build a fire on the shore, and you can make your philtre and be here to warm me when I come back up."

Ashleigh shook his head hopelessly. "Wait," he said. "Wait for evening. Juggles could do it, and the cold wouldn't hurt her."

"Juggles has done more than enough on our behalf," said Reilonde. "'Twould shame me to ask it of her."

Ashleigh made a distracted noise. It was the answer he had expected, but...

Suddenly she stood in front of him.

"Don't worry, m'dear," said Reilonde. Her right hand reached up to caress his shoulder. Ashleigh shivered, not entirely with the chill, as one red eye and one black one fixed him to the spot. He could not look away. "You know what makes me do this thing for you, whether you will or no. You know what will bring me back."

He seized her hand tightly. "I know," he said in a hoarse whisper. "And you damned well had better come back, mer. Because if you don't, _I will come after you."_

"I hold you to your promise," said Reilonde. "Make me the philtre."

"Yes," said Ashleigh, and turned to get the alchemy set from his saddlebags.

He laid his things out on a scrap of rawhide beneath the lowest branches of a pine tree. The branches had mostly protected the ground from snowfall, giving him a relatively dry place to sit. He was dimly aware of Reilonde gathering dry sticks as he worked. Then he became aware that his hands were no longer cold. He looked up and into the small fire for a moment before he went back to gently agitating the flask in his hand.

It was finished all too soon. Ashleigh cast an anxious look at the sky. His back and legs were cramped from sitting so long, but evening was still far off. He looked around for the Altmer. She sat on a short length of log that she must have dragged under the tree, close to the fire. She was watching him closely.

Ashleigh sighed.

"It's done," he said. He creaked his way up onto his feet and handed her the vial. She tucked it into the wide belt he had laughed at two mornings before.

"Feed the fire," said Reilonde. "Until we meet again, Ashleigh Prideaux."

Ashleigh watched as she turned and stepped into the dark shallows. She did not flinch at the cold water as little ripples spread out around her ankles. But then, she knew he was watching. He wanted to smile at that, but it hurt him too much at this moment and he could not take his attention away from watching Reilonde Nerevarine walk down into the black water.

He watched until the blackness swallowed her. Then he turned and went back to feed the fire.

Time passed. Prideaux walked in slow circles around the fire, collecting more kindling as he found it and plucking whatever plants he recognized. Sometimes he coughed, but that was less than irrelevant now. He had to calculate how much time was left...

Swimming fast, she might last many minutes. It wasn't half-frozen, after all; there was no ice floating on the surface. And the lake might not be very deep. It wasn't very wide, as lakes went. He had seen many larger.

But she would be breathing the water. That would lessen the time before she started to slow down and lose feeling in her fingers and toes. Wraithguard would be heavy as the weight of doubt in a moment like that. The spirit of Nerevar could do nothing to protect her. The Eye of Mephala would be worth less than a marble. Then he hoped, he dearly hoped she would use the potion he'd given her.

That might buy her another fifteen or twenty minutes at most. He'd done the best he could, but with dried old ingredients...

_Call it an hour. An hour before she begins to freeze to death._

He was almost certain he would know when an hour had passed. Working time pieces were a rare and expensive oddity in the Empire, even in High Rock. Metronomes might work by magic, but they were hard to carry, and sundials were simply not portable enough. Most educated citizens could mark time fairly well without these things.

_I hope "fairly well" is good enough._

Thus Ashleigh waited, and felt time pass twice over: the measured tick of the real seconds as they passed, and the agonizingly slow beat of seconds passing for _him_.

_It will be dark down there, _he thought after approximately twenty minutes. _Will there be light at this shrine? Or will it be so deep that the water is pitch black? Night eyes are for low light. No night vision can penetrate where there is no light at all. And she will have to walk along the bottom to return. Will she choose the right direction? Surely she will see the light from the fire through the water._

_ The pain of great cold is an old friend to me. To her, will it even be bearable?_

After forty minutes he went and stood as close to the water as he dared, staring down. How deep _was _the lake, really? If he made the fire greater, would she be more likely to see it? Or had she already begun to lose consciousness, the potion forgotten and her prize clutched in her numbing fingers?

_No. She will not forget. Calm yourself, Prideaux, and don't be such an old woman._

The prospect of his own death had not frightened him half as much.

At forty-two minutes, more or less, he gave in. He took out one of his few remaining magicka potions, uncorked it, and then cast the greatest light spell he knew. He had to hold his eyes tight shut as he took the restorative and put the bottle back in his satchel. The lake shore would be lit up for twenty yards, brighter than summer on this gray day in an icy fall.

When the light was just starting to fade, he heard a footstep.

Ashleigh froze where he stood, quivering with every sense alert, stifling the cough in his throat with everything he had. It is a convention of storytelling that events underwater are silent; but in fact, sound carries very well through the water.

It was not a footstep, he realized presently. It was the sound of something metallic striking small rocks.

_She is crawling._

Ashleigh cast a spell of water breathing and ran into the water without a second thought. The shock of it was breathtaking, but he waded on regardless. He was up to his waist when something clutched at his ankle. Ashleigh leaned over and fished around wildly until his hands closed around her shoulders. He staggered backward, dragging at the limp weight, until the water was around his knees and he could see her. Her lips were blue, and the nails of the hand he could see. Black water ran from her hair and her garments. Ashleigh dragged her upright as best he could, wincing at the frigid touch of her bare hand where she clutched at him, and stumbled back toward the fire.

"G-g-g-" she stammered in his ear.

"Shh," he said. "Not yet. 'Tis bitter cold down in the water."

He stripped her of her wet clothes, of everything but the gauntlet (she fought him when he tried to take that). Then he wrapped her in his spare robe and all of the blankets they both had. He held her tightly and as close to the fire as he dared, heedless of his own half-wet clothes. She held onto him with her bare arm. The hand that wore Wraithguard was clenched tight shut around something, held protectively in her lap.

She sat with her head on his shoulder, and he watched her lips turn back to a more ordinary yellow-orange.

"Better?" he asked.

"Got yourself wet," said Reilonde.

"I'll get dry," said Ashleigh. "I'm halfway there already, my own." He smothered a cough.

Reilonde laughed. She pulled her bare hand back so that she could use it to pry open the fingers of the gauntlet. A vial lay on the palm.

"Well then, my love," she said. "Let's take care of that, shall we?"

"You _did _get it," Ashleigh said, staring down at the thin cylinder of glass with its tight cork. The liquid inside was perfectly clear.

"Of course," said Reilonde. "The Lady is not a liar, y'know."

"I – no, of course not."

"Take it," said Reilonde. "Drink it all at once. Tritius said that was important." She held it out. Ashleigh picked it up gingerly, not wanting to crack it with his stiff fingers. He had to work at the cork for a minute, careful as if he were distilling amanita, until finally it came loose.

Ashleigh Prideaux drank the potion of Divayth Fayr in one gulp.

Everything went black.

"Ashleigh? Ashleigh! Wake up, gods damn ye, I know you're not dead!"

Someone was shaking him. Rather rudely, he thought. He seemed to be lying on his back, and the ground was cold. A wet braid of hair was slapping his cheek. Ashleigh squinted his eyes open to see the by-now familiar sight of Reilonde leaning over him.

"I say, what exactly just happened?" he asked.

"You drank the cure," said Reilonde. "Then you keeled over. D'you feel any better?"

"I don't know." Ashleigh sat up. "I don't feel like coughing. I don't want to drink blood, either, but I don't know that I did before." He took stock of himself thoughtfully. "I'm still cold."

"Aye," said Reilonde. "Come, then."

They sat huddled together before the fire. Presently Ashleigh said,

"I cannot imagine how to thank you."

Reilonde twitched beside him, a silent laugh. "Do not. Did you not save my life one dark day in the Imperial City, Ashleigh Prideaux?"

"I suppose I did," he said. "You didn't seem very much in favor at the time."

"Aye, well, I am now." She planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. He waited, but did not find himself paralyzed, so he kissed her back. "I have gained so much more than I have lost. You do know what that potion does, don't you?"

"Cures every known disease?" Ashleigh said.

"Oh, 'tis more than that. This was not just Fayr's cure, you know." She held up the empty vial. "'Tis also the disease."

"What?" Ashleigh pulled back a little, staring at her. "I have corprus?"

"No more nor less than I do," said Reilonde. "I had the divine disease once myself, y'know. Without it the cure does nothing. There is no disease made or known on Tamriel that is not overcome by the corprus, and Fayr's cure doesn't really cure it either. It simply makes the symptoms go away."

"Corprus prolongs the life of its victims," said Ashleigh slowly. "I believe I read that somewhere. And you said something to Azura about walking the world unaging - "

"Unaging in bitter pain," said Reilonde. "The vampires have each other, little as they may like it, and so do the daedra. Whom did I have? For I was and am no more than flesh and spirit. But now I have you until the end of the world, Ashleigh Prideaux."

"Or until someone kills us both," said Ashleigh.

"Well, aye. But we are not very easy to kill," said Reilonde. "Look what you have survived already."

Ashleigh laughed at that.

"It might be a long time until the end of the world," he said. "Do you think Juggles will last that long?"

"You know, I don't know," said Reilonde. "But vampires live to be older than mer, is it not so? Let us wait and see."

She twined the fingers of her bare hand into his, and they leaned their heads together as they stared into the fire.

"Do you think she'll be able to find us?" Ashleigh asked after a while. "The woods will be dark, and the water."

"Aye," said Reilonde. "But there will be a light on the shore."

_From further than miles could count and closer than breath, other eyes watched them._

_ "It appears to me that you have failed," said Mephala._

_ "For the present," snapped Molag Bal. "There will be another Ascendancy."_

_ "You would be well advised to give up," said Mephala. "It will be some time before I can get my eye back, you know. Who knows what you might lose?"_

_ A wordless snarl was Molag's only reply._

_ The Spinner shrugged as he stamped away out of her astral view. Then she turned back to Tamriel._

_ She would be well advised to give up herself, thought the goddess. But there were so many games to play, and all eternity in which to play them._

_ "You wished to speak to me?" she said to the third presence, which had been silent until now._

_ "Why, yes," said Sheogorath, and even through the astral plane the Spinner saw his mad smile. "Yes, I did."_

At last,

THE END

A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone! You may next hear of me writing for the Mass Effect universe. I'll hope to see some of you there. ;)


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